


An Angel, A Demon, and a Child Saviour go to Hogwarts: Year Two

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Series: Absconding with Harry verse [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Absconding with Harry verse, Angst, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Harry adopted by an angel and a demon, M/M, Year Two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:18:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19412536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: Harry Potter, a principality and a demon go to Hogwarts for the second year in a row. This year has strange happenings, lots of drama and, as usual, someone trying to kill Harry because apparently that's just a Thing. Crowley and Aziraphale are there to mess things up simply by existing and it's a wild ride for everyone. Oh and there's a House-Elf too. Fun right?





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> SHUT UP ABOUT THE FUCKING DATING YOU WALNUTS. IT DOESN'T MAKE YOU AMAZING TO COMMENT ON THE SAME DAMNED THING OVER AND OVER. FOR FUCK'S SAKE. HOW ABOUT YOU COMMENT "WOW, I LOVE HARRY AND THE TRIO" INSTEAD OF GETTING OFF ON "WELL ACT-U-ALLY THE TIMELINE IS THIS-" YOU WALNUTS. 
> 
> I've decided to split this up into parts since I had comments on the footnotes. I know on mobile they're a trial to access but on computer all you need to do is click on the number to link you to the footnote and then click on the number again at the footnote to go back to the point in the text. By splitting this into parts I can try and reduce the number of footnotes and distance you have to scroll on mobile for reading them. It's the best I can do I'm afraid without breaking up the text in awkward ways because I'm doing this in the Good Omens style of writing and that demands footnotes and craziness in literary form. My apologies for the inconvenience.

Summer with two immortal beings is, for Harry James Potter, incredibly enjoyable. He learns early on that completing his holiday schoolwork in the first weeks after school ends is the quickest way to get uncle Aziraphale to let him go out and about with his friends. He also learns that putting it off until uncle Aziraphale is a fretful mess over it pleases uncle Crowley to the point of letting him stay over at Ron’s house more than once a month.

“Uncle Aziraphale,” Harry calls, not looking up from his textbook on the floor beneath the skylight in the bookshop. He’s lying on his stomach, a notepad to his right, textbook to his left and a fountain pen poised over the pad. A frown is on Harry’s face as he stares down at the textbook and the frankly stupid potions ingredients he’s meant to be writing a four-foot long essay on the properties of. “Why do all of these names sound so—well—silly? Eye of newt? Why would I want to put the eye of a newt in potion that you’re meant to drink for stomach upset? Seems kind of silly.”

Uncle Aziraphale is sat at his desk, glasses perched on his nose and very intent on the book of prophecies he’s finally managed to obtain from a very reluctant seller. The book is engrossing to the point where he’s let his hot chocolate go cold three times now—not even noticing Harry warming it up with a warming charm—but not so engrossing that he doesn’t register Harry asking him questions.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale blinks and looks up and away from the book of prophecies on his desk, turning a little to look at Harry under the skylight. “What was that Harry?”

“Eye of newt; is that a real potions ingredient? The book talks about grinding it up and making sure you don’t let it get mouldy but, how can you grind up an eye? I suppose they can get mouldy, though, since eyes are made of liquid right?” Harry looks away from his textbook to look at Aziraphale with a confused expression. “I mean, Hermione told me that they are, and if things get damp you can get mould so eyes should be able to mould right? Or cause mould?”

Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, thinking for a moment. “I don’t rightly know, I’m afraid,” he admits after a moment. “About the eyes, that is,” he clarifies at Harry’s disappointed look. “I do know about eye of newt, however. It’s actually _mustard_ _seed_.”

“Mustard seed?”

Aziraphale nods excitedly. “Oh yes,” he says, shifting more in his chair so he’s fully facing Harry who is paying rapt attention to his uncle. “Some potions ingredients are known by rather misleading names like ‘eye of newt’ and ‘wool of bat’ but are really plants or herbs. Some—naturally—are really what they say they are, like blindworm—although that’s _really_ a type of venomous snake also known as a slowworm—but generally, if the potion says, ‘toe of frog’, ‘wool of bat’, or ‘eye of newt’ it’s just plants.”

Harry nods slowly. “Okay,” he says, “but why are they called those names? They’re really silly.”

“Because those were the names they were given a long time ago—by human standards,” Aziraphale answers, standing up and crossing the bookshop to a specific shelf. He selects three books in particular on the shelf and brings them over to Harry in the middle. “Here, these are historical accounts—quite accurate too might I point out—about witchcraft in the middle ages. There should be chapters that talk about potions ingredients and the origins of some of their names.”

“Awesome!” Harry gladly takes the books, smiling widely. “I’ll write to Hermione and ask her if she’s read them,” he says then, pulling a fresh piece of paper from the notepad and begins doing just that. “If she hasn’t, she’ll love hearing about them!”

Aziraphale smiles softly down at Harry—who is engrossed in his letter writing and thus doesn’t notice—and watches the eleven-year-old-soon-to-be-twelve scribbling away to his friend about books. Crowley, for all that the demon liked to pretend otherwise, found Harry’s love of books and learning about new things to be—well— _nice_. It was nice to see someone care about knowledge, about asking questions, about _understanding_ things[1].

Several days later, something tries to visit the bookshop but is ejected by the celestial wards Crowley and Aziraphale jointly created. These wards work to deny access to anything or anyone that would potentially cause harm to Harry—although the definition of ‘harm’ is very liberal to the point where a visit from one of Harry’s old primary school teachers intent on making snide comments about Harry’s non-English heritage is forcibly ejected from the bookshop and sent rolling out into the middle of the road, narrowly avoiding being flattened by a double decker bus[2].

Harry’s birthday is an enjoyable affair as Crowley and Aziraphale each get him individual gifts and a combined one that is, to summarise, “absolutely bloody bonkers” according to one Ronald Weasley.

Aziraphale—in true bibliophile fashion—gifts Harry with an exquisite set of books on magical lore from around the world. The books are expertly crafted and—by Aziraphale’s own miracle—adjust themselves to the magical ability of the reader[3]. Crowley’s gift is—in terms of presentation—far more ostentatious and very much Him. The demon snaps his fingers, blanking out all light in the room—since Aziraphale can create light as an angel, Crowley is equally as capable of removing it as a demon—which makes the arrival of a flaming broom—literally—more impressive than it would be otherwise. After the screaming subsides, Harry is absolutely stoked to try the broom out—learning that the flames will deter anyone from trying to tackle him in the air but won’t harm him at all—and it is only because Aziraphale reminds both Crowley and Harry that they don’t have the space—“no, we will not ‘just make the space’ Crowley!”—and that this is a party that Harry doesn’t zoom around the bookshop on it[4].

The last gift from both of Harry’s surrogate parents is given to him after everyone else has left—except Hermione and Ron who are staying the week so the trio can see 3 Ninjas on 7th August—since both angel and demon figure it may cause a ‘bit of a scene’ with the Weasley and Granger parents. After all, it’s not every day you find out your son or daughter’s friend can talk to snakes including the saw-scaled viper that, as a species, is known as one of the most deadly in the world.

“That thing is poisonous!” Ron exclaims, leaning back as far as he can in his chair when Harry opens the box with the snake inside.

Harry’s face lights up at the sight of the snake—young and barely longer than a pencil[5]—when it hisses at him curiously. Harry hisses back at it automatically at the same moment that Crowley—unable to help himself, being part-serpent himself by nature—hisses soothingly at it.

This—completely reasonably considering Ron’s upbringing—causes the young ginger to leap out of his chair and away from Crowley who has been leaning down over his shoulder to watch Harry’s reaction to the snake. “Merlin’s balls!”

“Merlin didn’t have balls, you humans just rewrote history and made him have a set,” Crowley scoffs.

Ron gapes at him.

Hermione and Aziraphale, as usual, ignore the shenanigans of the Two Gingers in favour of discussing Harry’s gift.

“Aren’t saw-scaled vipers venomous?” Hermione asks suspiciously.

“Very,” Crowley interjects helpfully, smirking a not so nice smirk. It suits him.

“That was partly the reason for choosing an _Echis_ really,” Aziraphale explains when Hermione looks surprised. The little smile on the angel’s face is—for those who don’t know from personal experience—the same smile he has worn when wiping the memories of human mob members trying to intimidate him out of his home for decades now. It is a nice smile but only in that it reaches his eyes, not in any way that makes you feel like the angel isn’t a threat[6].

“Why?” Hermione looks appalled at Aziraphale and the angels smile falls away a little.

“Well—after last year—with—with that shade, we—we had a talk—Crowley and I,” Aziraphale says awkwardly. “Harry was in danger and we almost weren’t quick enough you see—and that—that didn’t quite sit well with us.”

“I’ll say,” Crowley mutters, ruffling Harry’s hair when the now-twelve-year-old looks at him guiltily. “So we thought to do something about it.”

“But a _snake?”_

Crowley shrugs. “Why not? Harry likes them, I _made_ them, and he can talk to this one—and it’ll keep me up to date on any threats to him we don’t notice,” Crowley says, giving Hermione a look. “Makes perfect sense really.”

“Talk? To snakes? That’s not possible!” Hermione exclaims hotly and Crowley rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses—which he has worn all day that people have been at the bookshop for Harry’s party.

“Yes it is,” Ron says nervously, shooting Crowley awkward glances. “Parseltongue,” he explains, looking at Hermione. “Always been dark wizards who can talk to snakes.”

Crowley looks so offended at Ron’s words that Aziraphale hastily claps his hands together, shooting Harry an apologetic look when it scares the snake that was just about to slither out of the box at last. “Right! Tea anyone?”

The experience of the cinema with his friends is all Harry can talk about for days after. Crowley and Aziraphale endure the chattering with the patience of immortal beings who have listened to a lot worse than a twelve-year-old gushing about a relatively mediocre film[7]. 

* * *

Harry is still going on about it when the letter from Hogwarts detailing second year equipment requirements arrives. Crowley and Aziraphale have already informed Harry and his friends of the texts they'd need for second year—except for Defence—and it's uniform and potions ingredients that Harry needs from Diagon Alley than textbooks[8]. 

The day the trio go to Diagon Alley to collect Harry’s schoolbooks for the coming term is a day they Unanimously Regret. Visiting the ice-cream parlour on the street is enjoyable but it doesn't make up for the sheer chaos that occurs inside _Flourish and Blotts_ when the Weasley family—who Ron has convinced to visit the Alley on the same day as Harry and Hermione—come across the head of the Malfoy household and his son. Especially after Gilderoy Lockhart, the new Defence professor for the coming year, tries to drag Harry into a photoshoot and is instead turned into a mirror by Aziraphale[9]. This sends the entire bookshop into a circus until Aziraphale turns him back and Crowley makes everyone forget about that little miracle. 

"Arthur Weasley," Lucius Malfoy says and it is _definitely_ sneered—Crowley mutters such to Aziraphale while they stand just to the side with Harry and watch—as Malfoy and Weasley heads stare each other down. "The blood traitor." 

It, as to be expected, gets worse from this point. Mister Malfoy is given a verbal slap by Mister Weasley on what it means to be a 'blood traitor' and, as a result, Mister Weasley is insulted by Mister Malfoy commenting on his ability to provide for his family. The fists flying from both men are a bit unexpected considering they're both wizards but Crowley has always commented on the value of a good right hook. 

Rubeus Hagrid attempts to intervene between the two men but it is Crowley who separate them in a very real sense. The demon snaps his fingers and sends both Weasley and Malfoy skidding away from each other. Hagrid's not inconsiderable height and general mass separates the two more permanently when he stands between them and the two wizards hiss out the most polite but not at all meant apologies they can before Mister Malfoy leaves with Draco trailing behind. 

All but Aziraphale miss the fact that Mister Malfoy has been fiddling with the books of one Ginny Weasley. However, as Crowley leaves the bookshop and Harry follows the demon, the angel is distracted from pursuing the matter. This, it seems, is becoming a habit. 

The trio, leaving the Weasleys behind, follow at a vaguely decent distance as the Malfoy males head toward a side alley off Diagon. A sign reads: Knockturn Alley and, from the general state of the brickwork alone, Aziraphale figures the place isn't all that nice. 

"I'll follow them," Crowley declares, turning to Aziraphale. "Can claim it's for evil purposes and that. Meet you at the bookshop in an hour." 

Aziraphale wants to argue—he really does—but Crowley is more likely to fare better than Aziraphale in the not-nice-at-all alley and someone needs to take care of Harry. 

"You best be back for dinner, Crowley," Aziraphale orders and he narrows his eyes when Crowley mockingly places a hand over where his heart should be and swears on it. "Crowley, your heart isn't located there." 

"It's the sentiment," the demon counters before disappearing down Knockturn Alley. Aziraphale and Harry apparate home—though it's not really _apparating_ in Aziraphale's case, simply a close enough mimicry of the act[10]. 

In Knockturn Alley, Crowley miracles it so no one notices him as unusual for the place, although—as a demon—he's very, _very_ usual for Knockturn. The Malfoy's head to a shop with grimy windows and even grimier woodwork surrounding the glass panes. Inside is grimy also but in a more ordered manner suggesting the grime is for the Creepy Aesthetic. 

Crowley is reminded a little too much of hell with the aesthetic and loathes the idea of entering the shop but needs must. He is spying after all and—considering the contents of _Borgin and Burkes_ —Crowley _definitely_ needs to know about this shop. He follows behind Lucius Malfoy as the man moves with purpose to the proprietor of the store—at least, Crowley presumes this guy owns the place, if he doesn’t then he’s probably an escapee from the mad house; wait, humans don’t have ‘mad houses’ anymore do they? An escapee from the hospital then.

“Father, will you buy me this?” Draco Malfoy asks, pointing at an eye on display nearby and Crowley automatically glances at the boy. He’s not a bad student—if a bit pompous—but obviously the kid has a poor role model in the form of his elitist father. No body’s perfect though—just look at Crowley.

The staring glass eye is, Crowley realises with a jolt, a bastardisation of the all-seeing eye of God. It was created in the middle of the 14th century—another reason Crowley hates that century—by a group of very devout but ultimately stupid humans at the behest of a demon that was actually a Fallen Archangel. It wasn’t Crowley, but he knows who had the eye commissioned by humanity and he also knows they got a right lashing by Satan for losing the thing not long after.

Leaving it in the hands of obviously similar stupid humans to the ones who made it is a Bad Idea and Crowley decides to have a Good Idea. So he snaps his fingers and the glass eye vanishes, immediately replaced with a perfect replica with no power to it at all. The staring glass eye is nestled safely in an inner pocket of his jacket while Borgin—the name of the owner—and Lucius Malfoy talk about items the Malfoy head is selling to avoid a ministry raid.

Very naughty that, Crowley thinks, leaning over Malfoy’s shoulder to read the list on the counter. “Didn’t know you lot used foetuses that way; though English always have been about stealing everyone else’s stuff and claiming it as their own so, really, why am I surprised?”

It is fortunate none of the individuals in the shop can hear Crowley otherwise he’d be both cursed and verbally bitched at for daring to insult England and English tradition yada-yada. The demon has heard the same sort of diatribe from hell for centuries now so, honestly, he could probably change the places and the titles and still have near enough the rant from hell and the wizards be near enough word-for-word the same.

Shaking his head, Crowley moves away from the men, deciding he’s done enough spying for now and focuses his attention on the items in the Borgin’s shop. He notices a Hand of Glory that seems to fascinate Draco Malfoy—until Crowley snaps his fingers again and the boy loses interest; he’ll never know but Crowley thinks the boy has more potential than dark magic and evil and hell. Most of the items that Crowley can see are pretty unassuming—to the point where he wonders if the staring eye is the only thing in the shop that is honestly not meant for human hands until he sees it.

It’s nestled away, in a corner and it shouldn’t—it shouldn’t be there. It shouldn’t be anywhere.

“No,” Crowley breathes. “That—that’s not possible. It can’t be.”

He steps toward the object, eyes wide behind his sunglasses and he absently takes them off to better see. That—that shouldn’t be in human hands. It should be—well—

“You shouldn’t be here,” Crowley whispers, hand reaching out, trembling. “I can’t believe you’re here.” His hand touches the case. “You’re—you’re really here.”

A person can make a split-second decision and change everything. One moment in history, a single point in time, and the action undertaken changes what is to come. From the beginning of time, some actions are impossible to change because they have been Ordained, but others… others are determined by choices made in the moment.

Choices like taking an item that hasn’t been held by its owner in over six thousand _years_.

Those kinds of choices can change _everything_ really.

* * *

* * *

[1] If there was one thing that Crowley would _always_ support, no matter what, it was the pursuit of knowledge and understanding. In Harry’s case, that meant the demon would procure books that he’d never read in a million years just so Harry could have the opportunity to learn about world war two, ancient Egypt, mythology, Japanese history, the ocean, space, and anything else the child might well find an interest in learning about. Aziraphale once commented about this propensity of Crowley’s only for the demon to pin him to a wall and declare, very, _very_ angrily—oh so angrily because he was a demony demon—that it was all in service of evil and knowledge threw mankind out of Eden so maybe it’d do the same here. Both of them, unanimously agreed that mankind leaving Eden—not actually getting kicked out so much so as politely evicted from the premises—was actually the best thing to happen to humanity.

[2] The wards do, however, also include protections for Crowley and Aziraphale. Neither of them mention these protections for the other since they are done in ‘secret’ but the end result is no one in heaven or hell can actually see inside the bookshop and likely are unable to enter no matter how powerful they are since—combined together—Aziraphale and Crowley turn out to be a mite bit stronger than any Archangel or demon who would think to visit. However, as neither of them realise this, they simply chalk up the lack of visits to the bookshop by their respective offices as a stroke of good luck and continue on with life thinking they’re fooling their head offices. And, as their head offices have no desire to ‘loose face’, neither side actually pushes to try and do anything about these wards and the combined strength of a principality and archangel-turned-demon powering said wards.

[3] The books are, amusingly enough, more comprehensive than the fifth-year textbooks Percy will obtain in Diagon Alley on 19th August. They also—as per Aziraphale’s intentions—limit Harry’s exposure to more advanced and potentially-dangerous magic but don’t impede his progress either.

[4] Aziraphale and Hermione both squeak in horrified unison at the prospect of open flames near so many books—even if they _are_ protected from flame damage after Harry set several on fire while attempting his charms homework—and this, more than anything, dissuades Crowley and Harry from using the broom inside the bookshop. St James’ Park, however, is fair game—Crowley can always freeze everyone so they don’t notice after all.

[5] The average length of which is approximately nineteen centimetres or seven-point-five inches long as both metric and imperial measurement systems are used in the United Kingdom in a mish-mash, hodgepodge collection of both measurement systems. This is because the United Kingdom has never done things the easy way—just look at Brexit.

[6] In truth, it’s the kind of smile a very polite, demure person wears when they’re about to snap and beat you to death with the teaspoon they’re using to stir the tea with.

[7] It is the authors opinion that the first film of the 3 Ninjas franchise isn't the best of them, but that is because they are biased towards roller-coaster.

[8] Not that he wasn't going to buy some books. Aziraphale is always so pleased when Harry buys a book and, since Harry tends to _enjoy_ the books he buys, he has no complaints with pleasing his uncle Zira this way. Crowley is pleased also but hates to admit it verbally—as he has only ever managed a smile when Harry has gushed about a book he’s bought or that Crowley has given him. But knowing that both his uncles are happy about Harry liking books reassures the child that being smart isn’t a bad thing no matter what aunt Petunia, uncle Vernon or Dudley tried to drill into him.

[9] "I thought it rather fitting," Aziraphale says later when Crowley asks him _why a mirror_. The angel has that look in his eyes that is mirthful but also a little bit mean and Crowley just smiles. 

"That's my angel," he says fondly and Aziraphale's smile turns bashful at the praise. Harry, wisely, makes himself scarce to avoid the inevitable flirting-disguised-as-insults that is about to occur.

[10] Although neither Crowley or Aziraphale do it often, both are capable of spontaneous teleportation of their beings and anything else they so desire to teleport. It is more a matter of choosing not to do it and enjoying the journey time that deters them from teleporting everywhere. Although, at some point in their lives, both are advised against teleportation and, as such, don’t think of it as the first solution to a problem when Crowley’s Bentley is far more comfortable and—although mildly terrifying for Aziraphale considering the speed of it—far more enjoyable as well. Teleportation is instantaneous after all and it is sometimes enjoyable to spend time with someone on a journey to a point rather than immediately arriving at your destination.


	2. Autumn and Winter Terms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How was your summer?” Harry asks Ron and Hermione when they all settle down in compartment, trunks and pets all politely stowed away. Hermione has a pet cat—a Kneazle apparently—that seems very displeased with its carrier and she is happy to discuss it at length.
> 
> “It was brilliant! I asked my parents to get me a pet for at Hogwarts and—after explaining the magical benefits of a familiar—they agreed.” Hermione proudly smiles at them both. “Crookshanks is very young but very affectionate. He’s also an excellent mouser according to mum.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! So I took way longer than planned to get this out but it's heeeeerrree!!

Arriving at Platform nine-and-three-quarters, Harry makes a beeline for his friends, excited at the prospect of spending _another_ year with them twenty-four-seven[1]. Only Aziraphale has brought him to the station today as Crowley had to go on ahead to Hogwarts and sort out a minor magical creature problem—some sort of wild animal in the forest that Hagrid can’t get near for some reason—but the lack of Crowley at the station doesn’t deter Harry. He knows he’ll see his uncle at the Welcoming Feast if not before at the station—uncle Aziraphale is heading to Hogwarts via the Hogwarts Express.

Apparently he wants to experience a steam engine again. Harry doesn’t really get the appeal of that since he can fly but—well—uncle Aziraphale is weird. Harry loves him for it.

“How was your summer?” Harry asks Ron and Hermione when they all settle down in compartment, trunks and pets all politely stowed away. Hermione has a pet cat—a Kneazle apparently—that seems very displeased with its carrier and she is happy to discuss it at length.

“It was brilliant! I asked my parents to get me a pet for at Hogwarts and—after explaining the magical benefits of a familiar—they agreed.” Hermione proudly smiles at them both. “Crookshanks is very young but very affectionate. He’s also an excellent mouser according to mum.”

Harry frowns. “How’d she figure that out?” he asks, curiously.

“We had a rat infestation in the gardens at the start of the summer,” Hermione answers. “After a week of Crookshanks there’s no more infestation.”

Harry is surprised and wonders if perhaps there’s no other ‘infestations’ of animals around Hermione’s home too; though he doesn’t voice that. “Cool.”

Ron is somewhat sullen as he has no pet compared to his friends but perks up soon enough when the sweet trolley trundles along and they buy enough sugar to give a diabetic a panic attack. The trio discuss what they might experience in the coming year—from Harry and Ron hoping to get on the Quidditch team to Hermione and Harry discussing what sort of homework they’re likely to get from their professors—until a loud and sudden jolting bang disrupts them.

And the entire train.

The Hogwarts Express is stranded on a bridge just past the border between England and Scotland a little after four-thirty in the afternoon. Hogwarts is informed of this stranding at three-minutes-to-five in the afternoon. Crowley finds out about the train at quarter-past-five, six whole minutes after Aziraphale resolves the problem with a haughty snap of his fingers and a very unimpressed commentary for the culprit responsible.

As such, the Hogwarts Express is a whopping eight minutes later than usual and this apparently leaves the Welcoming Feast in shambles. Evidently no one thought to spell the boats that cross the Black Lake to respond when prompted and not at a specific time. All of the students then are forced to travel to Hogwarts together—though first years are left till last to at least give some measure of time for the other years to rush into the Great Hall and seat themselves[2].

The first years are all sorted neatly and with very little fuss. Dumbledore—in his typical fashion—tells the entirety of the school that they have a new Defence Professor and apparently doesn’t think there is a single bit of a problem with this new appointment. Considering that the headmaster seems to rather enjoy twinkling his eyes at Gilderoy Lockhart however—well—perhaps he simply sees him as a pretty face[3].

None of the other staff members—notably McGonagall, Snape, Crowley and Aziraphale—are impressed with the winner of Witch Weekly’s whatever-it-is-smile but they all clap when required. Crowley gives the new professor one clap and a half-smirk half-scowl look that he has worn when feeling particularly disgusted by someone—the last person he directed that look at had been Hastur last time he’d been in hell actually, two weeks ago.

Everyone is sent to bed with full stomachs and promises of classes beginning bright and early—which most students manage a groan at even though they’re stuffed to the gills with food—leaving the staff to retire and do their own thing. Crowley and Aziraphale—being both immortal and not in need of much, if any, sleep—retire together and start Planning[4].

Morning is a dull and tedious affair but the first classes of the year go off without a hitch—that is, until they reach Lockhart and his… interesting teaching methods.

Crowley is called to help wrangle a room full of Cornish Pixie’s and doesn’t bother telling Harry and co off for sticking a lot of them in Lockhart’s chambers—he sends them on their way with a smirk: “off you pop, mind you don’t tell everyone where you put them,” he says and Harry grins at him before escaping the classroom. Lockhart tries to give them detention for his chambers being a bit… roasted but Crowley casually mentions at lunch that he is the cause of the charring as it “seemed like a good idea at the time” and the matter is dropped.

The beginning of the term is nice and simple and not at all stressful excluding Lockhart being stupid and idiotic and Crowley’s increasing contempt for the idiot but then Quidditch try-outs happen and Harry is, as always, smack-bang in the middle of drama.

Oliver Wood is ecstatic to have Harry as seeker for the team. He’s so ecstatic he actually kisses one of the Weasley twins—no one quite knows which one since both are equally shocked—and does a jig on the spot[5]. On the way back to the school, Harry, Ron, and Hermione come across Draco Malfoy and his two ‘friends’—if one can call the bodyguard-style boys whom Malfoy rarely talks to friends—and end up in a small tussle after rude and frankly offensive words are slung.

Crowley comes across the ruckus—along with Aziraphale—and is just not quick enough to separate them all before Lockhart—in typical idiot-fashion—blunders in and causes more problems.

It really is understandable that Crowley loses his temper and teleports the useless excuse for a wizard to somewhere in the Amazonian rainforest to be terrified by the larger cousins of Crowley’s houseplants. It really, _really_ is.

“What—how did you do that?” Hermione exclaims wide-eyed as she stares at Crowley who is trying very hard not to hiss at everything in existence. No one notice the grass in the courtyard starting to tremble.

“Because I wanted to!” Crowley snaps, watching Aziraphale kneeling next to Ron and murmuring soft words to the boy. “Of all the stupid bloody things! That—he—I’ve known demons with more sense than him!”

“Now darling, do be fair,” Aziraphale says, glancing over his shoulder at Crowley. “Some of those demons were angels once, they had to have _some_ intelligence.”

“Not enough _not_ to go and be stupid and Fall, angel,” Crowley responds and Aziraphale can’t argue with that. “Yes, that includes me shut up.”

Aziraphale wisely shuts up.

Ron is gifted—as a result of Lockhart’s truly horrific magical ability—with coughing up slugs every few seconds until Aziraphale thinks of the right way to word the miracle and clears up the bout of gastropod mollusc indigestion.

“Pessstsss,” Crowley hisses at the slugs that are on the ground even after Aziraphale miracles Ron slug-free. The demon snaps his fingers extra hard and the slugs pop out of existence with a kind of quiet little echoey-scream more suited to a horror movie than the Hogwarts courtyard.

“Now, now, Crowley,” Aziraphale lectures, “they’re only doing what they were made to do.”

Crowley doesn’t respond to that—though any other time he probably would, with expletives—because his attention is drawn to the three Slytherins trying to not-so-subtly sneak away from punishment. “Detention,” Crowley drawls, looking at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle with a not-so-nice smile. “Hagrid needs help with the dung heap for classes next week. He’ll be _ecstatic_ for the help[6].”

“Wh-what about Potter!” Draco half-whines half-wails and it’s truly extraordinary the pitch the boy reaches. “And Weasley! And Granger! They attacked _us_!”

Crowley—in typical Crowley fashion—tilts his head a little and raises an eyebrow. It’s an interesting sight considering his sunglasses obscuring his eyes—sunglasses he hardly takes off outside of class unless he’s with Harry or Aziraphale—and lends itself to intimidation quite effectively. “They defended their friend from a bully—nothing wrong with that in my book.”

“Bu- wha- that’s not fair!”

“You called me a Mudblood, Malfoy!” Hermione shouts at the Slytherin boy who gives her an angry, ugly look. “You’re lucky I didn’t knock your teeth out!”

Crowley smirks. That would have been a sight to see, really.

Now, objectively speaking, children who get into physical fights are punished equally because—as they always say—two wrongs don’t make a right. Crowley thinks that is absolute _rubbish_. If someone is being a dick to someone and insulting them then the person being insulted is well within their rights to shut up the dickish person with a solid punch to the jaw or solar plexus. Of course, Crowley prefers words first but he’s decked a couple of demons before in the past and he’s perfectly happy and willing to deck a few more. If and when required, of course[7].

At Hogwarts, had it been any other teacher besides Crowley who’d caught them fighting, there’s no doubt both parties would have detention. Because that makes sense, right? It doesn’t matter who’s in the wrong if they’re fighting—except that it _does_.

Especially when the fighting is caused by stupid idiocy of a child who has no understanding of anything except his horrifically narrow worldview and likely could stand to benefit from a few smacks upside the head by people with some common sense.

Besides—Ron has been belching up slugs and he’s the one who was about to hex Malfoy so, in Crowley’s eyes, Ron’s already received his punishment. Now it’s Malfoy’s turn.

The Slytherin boy obviously dislikes Crowley’s logic but doesn’t argue much further beyond a “my father will hear about this” as though that’s going to intimidate Crowley into changing his mind. The day Crowley fears a pompous, stuck-up, entitled prick of a parent is the day Crowley starts simpering at Beelzebub’s knee.

So basically never.

* * *

Dinner is a simple, enjoyable affair without Lockhart at the staff table and Crowley takes great pleasure in being able to relax and lean against Aziraphale in his chair and not give a flying fuck what Dumbledore or any of the other staff think about it. If Crowley wants to sit next to his angel—or half sprawl across him as it is—then he’ll fucking well do exactly that.

Propriety be _damned_.

Of course, then Dumbledore ruins it all by dragging the staff to his office after and ‘politely’ demanding to know where the hell Lockhart is and what they’re going to do with Defence classes until he returns. This prompts Aziraphale to give Crowley That Look he does—the one that ended up with Crowley making bloody Hamlet popular—and the demon just groans.

“Hagrid can cover until Lockhart—uh—probably—returns,” he says, only a little bit reluctant. “I’ll take over Defence.”

“Preposterous!” Snape snarls, robes swirling in a swirly manner as he stalks across the room and stands directly opposite Crowley. “I am more than qualified to teach Defence, headmaster! Not this—” he gives Crowley a particularly nasty look that makes Aziraphale bristle “—child snatcher.”

Most would be forgiven for assuming Crowley to be the one who takes offence at people insulting him. It’s an easy assumption to make since he is, indeed, intimidating and quite vain. But they’d be wrong. Crowley can take name calling and insults and threats to his person and not give a damn—it’s very much par the course of being a demon—but insult someone he cares about—like Harry or Aziraphale—and Crowley takes every aspect of his personality, his past, everything he is and has been and May Yet Be and he turns it on the person being stupid enough as to insult what he loves.

Severus Snape assumes Crowley will hex him, curse him, shout at him, or even—perhaps—take a swing at him.

Severus Snape is wrong.

Big shock there.

“How dare you!”

You see, the mistake Severus Snape makes—that everyone makes—is thinking Crowley will defend himself. He won’t. Not unless he has to. But the thing is—he doesn’t necessarily need to. Not when he has an angel standing next to him bristling with anger and indignation and no small amount of wrath to do it for him.

Aziraphale stalks forward, placing himself between Snape and Crowley, his eyes blazing and they’re much brighter than usual because he is angry and they Know It Now. He raises a hand and pokes Snape in the chest. “Harry was being abused by his relatives and Crowley rescued him! You dare accuse him—him of all people—of snatching children! You have—you have no idea the lengths he has gone—what he’s been through—just so a few children can live when they were—when it was—when they weren’t supposed to according to the Almighty! _How dare you!”_

Crowley reaches out and touches Aziraphale’s arm, trying to calm the angel because he can feel how angry Aziraphale is. It’s too angry for this enclosed space with humans with magic that can possibly sense What They Are if they show too much. Aziraphale needs to reel it in.

“Angel, angel,” he says, pulling a little on Aziraphale’s arm and the angel turns to look at him. Crowley shakes his head ever so slightly and Aziraphale—understanding the demon and respecting him—backs down.

It’s clear in the way Aziraphale gives Snape a look that is only a second away from a Smiting that he really wants to keep going, but reason and common sense regain traction in Aziraphale’s mind and the angel steps back to stand flush against Crowley’s side. It’s obviously for his own reassurance as much as it is to send a Clear Message to Snape and the others that Aziraphale will not stand for someone threatening Crowley.

Perhaps that is why, then, Dumbledore doesn’t push the issue. The headmaster accepts Crowley’s solution but stresses that it is only until Lockhart returns or they need to find another replacement as Hagrid is still not fully qualified[8].

Some idiot—probably Lockhart before he was sent to only Crowley knows where—suggests a duelling club at some point and a gang of seventh years take it to the headmaster who—after some consideration—decides that it’s a splendid idea so long as there is suitable oversight. This results in Crowley—as the temporary Defence Against the Dark Arts professor—being roped in to oversee the entire fiasco. He opens it up to the rest of the school after a fifth year tries to sneak in to practice with the seventh years and only comes to regret this decision when Harry, Ron, and Hermione show up.

More specifically, he comes to regret it when they get it into their heads that he—as the defence professor—surely must be a skilled duellist and therefore can probably wipe the floor with Aziraphale—only a simple librarian—as well as the rest of the staff.

Harry, the absolutely unrepentant little brat, is grinning when he says, “you can probably beat the headmaster too.”

Now, considering Crowley is a demon, he obviously can best any human in near enough any avenue but, since the entirety of the school doesn’t believe he’s a demon, there’s an assumption that he’s just rather good at magic and probably is a dark wizard with less-than-dark-morals.

The irony of that belief is fucking hilarious, really.

Unfortunately for Crowley, Aziraphale shows up at the duelling club to watch it all and offer help with sourcing research for improving duelling skill. This means that the angel overhears—it’s not really ‘overhear’ since Harry and his friends seem to purposefully pitch their voices to carry—the remarks about Crowley obviously being a better dueller than Aziraphale.

And this is the point where Crowley wishes he’d never thought to visit Surrey that day—it’s only for a moment, but he wishes it nonetheless and has a jarring moment where the wish _takes_ and he’s in an entirely different place, with strangers, and feels so painfully alone, before he banishes the wish and reality reasserts itself.

“It’s boring if you watch us adults do all the fighting!” Crowley exclaims, making sure his voice carries. “Oh sure! We have practice and we have skills but the best weapon you’ll ever have in a fight is _imagination!_ What’s imaginative about watching us fight—” he gestures at himself and Aziraphale who has come to stand beside him “—when you could watch _each_ _other_ fight and use your imaginations to shape the magic instead of just copying us?”

“What do you mean?” One of the Ravenclaw fifth years asks, frowning. “We have to know spells before we can duel effectively,” she argues and—well—she’s right, you do need to know Stuff before you can Do Anything but sometimes… sometimes that Stuff is a barrier to what you can Try First.

“Yeah but you didn’t know spells when you were babies and you still did magic,” Crowley points out. “You learn stuff—words and numbers and maths and about places and spells—and that just—it limits your imagination—tells you what is and isn’t—all that sorta thing!” He looks at Aziraphale who is giving him his best Oh You’re On Your Own With This look and Crowley rolls his eyes. “Instinct and imagination are the best things you have—even when you probably think they aren’t—because one keeps you alive and the other makes you _feel_ alive!”

“So—I don’t know—don’t think about spells and words and what charms suit whatever! Imagine you can make magic do anything for you—the language is meaningless; it’s human and limited! Magic isn’t limited! Magic is—it’s—well it’s—” Crowley stumbles, trying to think of a word, a way to explain what magic is.

Aziraphale comes to his rescue. “Ineffable.”

None of the Ravenclaw students really seem to get what Crowley means—well, some do, but most of them are as confused as the rest of the students from the other houses—and Crowley wants to sigh. He should have known trying to explain magic—just another form of Divine and Infernal power—to humans wouldn’t go well. They just can’t comprehend it.

Still. He tried.

“Pair up, try and disarm, tie up, trap each other. No maiming, no killing, nothing dark, and no torture—of any kind,” Crowley sighs, giving up.

The students all scramble to pair off and—unfortunately—Hermione and Ron pair up before Harry can snag either of them. Someone shoves into him and he ends up tumbling into Malfoy who gives him a dirty, haughty look before it switches to a horrified expression when Crowley declares: “you’re all paired up. Get duelling.”

Neither Harry or Malfoy have any real chance of grabbing different partners—especially since everyone around them is paired up and already throwing spells around like they have the magical equivalent of semi-automatic weapons and not single shooter wands—but this doesn’t stop them from at least trying. It fails—naturally—since they’re both second years and the students around them are fifth year and up and don’t want to be saddled with babies when duelling.

This leaves them both reluctantly accepting they are stuck with each other until they have a real chance of swapping with someone else. Unfortunately, this ends as most of their interactions usually do: badly.

_“Serpensortia!”_

A large black mamba erupts from Malfoy’s wand, propelled by whatever force the spell creates in the air directly toward Harry. It lands a few feet from him and hisses angrily at the landing.

Snakes, as a general rule, do not enjoy being dropped, thrown, dragged, or any variation of these. It is perfectly reasonable then for the snake to be Most Peeved and wanting to lash out at anything near enough for it to sink its fangs into.

The nearest thing just so happens to be Harry James Potter who also just so happens to be a parselmouth.

_“Are you okay?”_

The snake hisses confused because here’s a human talking to it after it’s been dropped into this place from where it was very nice and comfy in the forest curled up in a patch of sunlight. _“I am not! I have been attacked in my sleep!”_

 _“Attack- oh, Malfoy summoned you from somewhere?”_ Harry looks surprised for a moment before he decides to focus on the fact that the black mamba is still Very Annoyed. _“It wasn’t an attack, it was a spell. He used it to summon you in a duel. Probably thought I’d panic and run away from you.”_

 _“Why aren’t you?”_ The snake asks, curious and calming down more and more as it listens to Harry speak to it.

The entire hall has fallen rather silent around them but Harry is focused on the snake because he doesn’t want it to hurt anyone. He does wonder if uncle Crowley is going to arrive soon. It would be nice, he thinks, for the snake to have someone else to reassure it.

 _“I like snakes,”_ Harry says, shrugging. _“My uncle is one.”_

 _“What kind of snake is he?”_ The black mamba slithers towards him now, curiosity outweighing its anger because—well—it’s curious. _“He should be a strong, large snake. I might like him if he is.”_

Harry smiles. _“Any kind of snake he wants to be.”_

Obviously that statement nonplusses the black mamba but before it can hiss out anything else, Aziraphale and Crowley are there, students moving further away from their professors who stare at Harry kneeling near to the black mamba.

The very venomous snake that is now rearing back in alarm.

 _“It is not possible!”_ The snake exclaims, and its blinking in the way snakes do but if it were human the expression on its face would be very close to fearful respect and awe. _“You are—it is—creator!”_

Aziraphale smiles. “And another one recognises you, dear,” he says to Crowley who rolls his eyes.

“Shut up angel,” Crowley says before he steps forward and focuses on the snake _. “Yes yes, it’s me, I know, bit of a shock. Come here—I’ll get you back to where you belong after a check-up. Silly boy using a snake-summoning spell like that.”_ He kneels down and holds a hand out for the black mamba to slither toward and around. _“He could have hurt you.”_

 _“I am strong!”_ The black mamba says, curling up his arm and slithering across his shoulders. _“He did not hurt me, just startled me. I was sleeping!”_

 _“Well that was rude of him,”_ Crowley says glancing at Malfoy who looks shockingly pale—well, more pale—and flinches when the demon looks at him. “You woke her from her sleep—can’t blame her for feeling bitey for that. Horrible thing to do.”

This—apparently—is some sort of Signal for the entire hall to lose its collective mind as students either scramble for the door or badger Harry and Crowley with questions and accusations. Aziraphale silences the lot of them with a snap of his fingers that has the hall of students staring at him dumbfounded.

“You’re scaring her with your shouting,” Aziraphale says, reaching out to pet the black mamba on the head. She allows his touch, leaning into it and Crowley doesn’t give Aziraphale a slightly jealous look for the attention he’s bestowing on the snake—but it’s a near thing. Okay so he does. He does and Aziraphale just smiles at him in return.

Dumbledore is informed later on at dinner of the events of the duelling club when Crowley shows up to dinner with the black mamba still on his shoulders. His explanation for why she’s still around is a simple, “she wanted to sight see” and none of the staff are willing to question that any further[9]. The whole school is abuzz for days with rumours of Harry, Crowley, and Aziraphale being a trio of dark wizards—even though Aziraphale is literally a being of light and purity and charming awkwardness—because they’re parselmouths. These rumours all conveniently leave out the source of the summoned snake and the technicality that Aziraphale doesn’t speak parseltongue, he can simply be universally understood by all animals and can understand them in turn.

Of course, these are teenagers with teenage imaginations and they run absolutely wild with it all. Considering the attack on Mister Filch’s cat that occurred only a month or so prior, it’s not entirely surprising that Crowley is dealing with petrified students—not literally—in his classes until the Fear aspect wears off when he loses his temper, transforms into an abnormally large python and sulks at his desk for an entire class. Apparently something about Crowley becoming a snake to avoid the fears of his students strikes them as inherently illogical and totally in-character for the professor they’d come to know in Care of Magical Creatures.

This action helps settle down the fears and rumours of the students toward Crowley and, jointly, Harry and Aziraphale. It is a relief considering the Christmas holidays are just around the corner and he has no desire to deal with a glum angel or depressed son while they’re in London.

* * *

Thus it is that Christmas begins with Harry rushing for the train, Monty the snake wrapped around his arm and Dog-the-mongrel—who has deigned it necessary to not live in the forest any longer at the moment and thus is willing to be With Her Human—loping along beside him in a stride that could be maintained for hours.

“I’ll see you guys over Christmas right?” he asks, the moment he’s comfortably seated—Dog-the-mongrel curled up at his feet and Monty asleep in his lap—on the train. “Uncle ‘Zira told me that you guys are totally welcome at the bookshop.”

“And Professor Crowley?” Ron asks, wary and a little bit afraid still. He has accepted that Harry can talk to snakes and Doesn’t Think It’s A Big Deal but the ginger is still wrapping his head around their temporary defence professor being a parselmouth as well.

Harry shrugs. “Uncle Crowley wants to take me to the reptile house at London Zoo,” he says, “I don’t think he’d mind if either of you came along. He wants to see how they’re taking care of the snakes, he says.”

“You don’t believe him?” Hermione asks, frowning.

“No, I do,” Harry says, “but I think he might want to—I don’t know—I think he wants to just see them. Maybe they’re his friends?”

The idea that Crowley is friends with snakes on display at a zoo is—apparently—not as mind-bogglingly shocking as him declaring himself to be a demon and never being believed by anyone he tells except Harry.

Harry’s Christmas is relatively normal for the most part. He enjoys his gifts from his friends and his adoptive parents—Crowley and Aziraphale both give him gifts that are very expensive and cost more than it did to build Hogwarts but they’re immortal and money is no consequence to them. Hermione gets him an eagle feather quill that looks fantastic but won’t get used as much as it might have considering one of the gifts he received from Crowley was a single black feather quill that looked like it belonged to a giant swan but was, in fact, from Crowley’s own wings. It was a treasured possession and one Harry would always favour above and beyond any other quill he’d ever receive.

Ron’s gives him a book on the Chuddley Cannons that is an obnoxious shade of orange. Harry is pleased with it regardless of the colour scheme and settles down to read it while waiting for the Christmas dinner he can hear Aziraphale and Crowley bickering over as they make it. Hagrid’s tin of treacle fudge is expertly dished into a baking tray by Crowley and shoved in the oven after dinner is ready so it can be somewhat edible by the time they’ve finished eating.

Overall, Harry’s Christmas is as pleasant as ever and he is forever grateful that Crowley took him away from Number Four. It’s why he gives Crowley and Aziraphale gifts of his own that are—to some—rather tacky but have a lot of meaning behind them. This year, Harry gives them both a copy of the first picture he ever took of the three of them when he was ten and Aziraphale gave him a camera. The image moves like a magical photo because Harry had done what no one in the duelling club had thought to; he’d imagined it to be moving and pushed magic at the photograph until it did exactly that.

Aziraphale is prone to tears when he’s happy, sad, or any sort of emotion besides angry, so Harry isn’t surprised to be swept into a hug by the angel and see tears in Aziraphale’s eyes. He is surprised to see Crowley wiping a tear away from his eye just moments before he gives Harry his own hug—one that is just a bit too tight to be a casual embrace. Harry doesn’t entirely understand what he’s done to elicit such emotions from the two but he understands that they love him. They love him enough to have fought off Voldemort last year. They love him enough to argue with Dumbledore all the time. They love him enough that they chose to raise him and don’t regret making that choice.

And all of that—that all means the world to a boy like Harry James Potter. He has a family and it’s a little bit odd but it’s still good—and bad—and he is forever grateful for it.

He doesn’t realise that Aziraphale and Crowley are grateful for the same thing.

But he will. In time. He will.

* * *

* * *

[1] He acts as though he hasn’t seen them the entire summer when he has—no less than two dozen times in total, including the week-long visit to the bookshop by Ron and Hermione, and also Harry’s own week at the Burrow. This is standard behaviour of children however, and thus doesn’t really require any commentary beyond a “thought you ought to know” feeling by the author.

[2] Everyone’s luggage is left on the train except the basic necessities like medication at the polite but firm orders from Aziraphale. He snaps his fingers moments after the students have all left the platform at Hogsmeade and the luggage is promptly delivered to their correct locations with the exception of a few select objects that Crowley will take _great_ pleasure in making inert before returning them to their original owners.

[3] Heaven- and hell-know that’s all Gilderoy Lockhart really is. And even then, it’s not a particularly pretty kind of face. More smarmy and irritating and obviously plucking of the eyebrows to the point of problems. But each to their own Crowley and Aziraphale both figure—well, who are they to judge?

[4] It is worth noting that neither of these two absolute _morons_ know what they’re actually planning for and, rather, this is more an excuse for them to spend time together. Of course, since they’re both in love with each other to a sickening degree, the fact that they still pretend otherwise at times—and, indeed, seem to _embrace_ the ruse—really says a lot about them both, doesn’t it?

[5] Not—to clarify-an Irish jig. No. That would be stereotypical and not at all okay. No, Oliver Wood does the equivalent of jumping up and down very quickly and with barely any actual height attained because he’s so full of energy and joy and cannot adequately channel it. This is—incidentally—why he kisses one of the twins; they’re the nearest to him and simply a victim to his manic happiness. Not that said twin complained after the shock wore off.

[6] In truth, Hagrid will _not_ thank him in the slightest for sending three annoying, whining Slytherins to come do manual labour but the groundskeeper-assistant-professor _does_ take a certain amount of glee in witnessing Draco Malfoy falling into said dung heap no less than _three_ times in _one_ night.

[7] The irony of this is not lost on the author who has finally decided that this entire series is set in the 90s as a sort of middle way for the Harry Potter novels technically set in the 80s and Good Omens set in the same period, but then there is the TV version of Good Omens which the author loves and is set in the bloody 2000s+… honestly, the author is past the point of caring here, but since they shot themselves in the foot with mentioning the 3 Ninjas movie (well done, you utter _fool_ ), it is decided that the year of Our Lord is 1992 at this point in the story. The irony then—now the context is explained—is that Crowley is very well going to fight some demons about twenty years from this point and be very tired of himself and circumstances as a result. Also, this author staunchly argues these two idiots are A Thing from day one and they just have periods of Denying It For Political Reasons. Like idiots in love tend to do.

[8] Crowley gives the headmaster the middle finger at _that_ remark. Aziraphale doesn’t even bother to pretend to be shocked by the action, too busy still being angry and wrathful.

[9] The black mamba had eventually returns to whence she came after meeting Harry’s own snake and deciding he had adequate protection as the chosen child of their creator. It leaves Harry a little bit confused as to why he needs protection but his snake—thusly named Monty for Reasons that Harry refuses to explain to any pureblood wizard including Ron—but Crowley distracts him with the story of How He Made Snakes For God and Harry quickly forgets what the black mamba was talking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of drama and angst and feels in this one *cackles*
> 
> As always, comments and kudos sustain me :)


	3. Spring Term

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, so how did you get to school then?” Hermione asks.
> 
> Harry grins. “We flew.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to fix the plotholes I accidentally created for myself ~~looks at Scabbers~~ in this series so maybe pay attention to the footnotes since that's sort of where I'm putting a lot of the fixes.
> 
> I've literally just finished typing this out lmao and my wrist is on fire (don't hit your wrist with a hammer folks, it hurts) but I wanted to update this so I have :)

Harry returns to Hogwarts alone due to… circumstances. He doesn’t understand them fully himself—in fact, he has no idea what is going on really—but when he finds Ron and Hermione in the common room he sits himself down in a comfy armchair and fills them in on what he knows.

It isn’t really a lot[1].

“Why weren’t you on the train, Harry? We looked everywhere for you,” Hermione asks and she has that frowny, concerned look on her face that has seen Crookshanks be forgiven for a number of assaults on Harry and Ron’s hands over the year[2].

“Uncle ‘Zira and I were stopped when we went through the station instead of apparating,” Harry begins to explain, tucking into the food his uncle had given him from the kitchens. “The wall wouldn’t work,” he says around a mouthful of chicken salad on tasty brown bread. He drops some crumbs in his lap and Hermione gives him a reproachful look. 

“Sorry.” Harry swallows the mouthful and focuses on explaining the situation to them instead of eating and getting judgey looks from Hermione for talking with his mouth full. “I missed breakfast and since I didn’t catch the train I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Dinner is in less than an hour,” Hermione says and Harry shrugs.

“Uncle ‘Zira said I shouldn’t wait to eat if I’m hungry since I’m growing,” Harry responds and Hermione can’t argue with him about that. She likes Aziraphale too much to go against what the school librarian says and he is right about this. Harry is growing—and making up for nearly a decade of poor nutrition and treatment by his blood relatives—and food gives his body to grow.

“Stop complaining about him eating, Hermione!” Ron exclaims, giving the girl a look that has her flushing a little in embarrassment. At least, Harry thinks it’s embarrassment. “Why wouldn’t the wall work? What happened? How’d you manage to get to Hogwarts then?”

Harry finishes off his food quickly and fishes a bottle of water from his bag. He takes a long draught of water before he answers Ron’s quickfire questions.

“I don’t really know why the wall wouldn’t work, only that uncle ‘Zira was really annoyed,” Harry says after a moment. The common room is quieter than it had been when he entered but there’s still enough ambient noise to make it difficult for anyone to hear him. “He fixed it but the train was already leaving by then. I don’t know what caused it but uncle ‘Zira seemed to know.”

“Okay, so how did you get to school then?” Hermione asks.

Harry grins. “We flew.”

“On brooms?” Ron asks and there’s wonder in the boys voice at the prospect. Flying all the way to Hogwarts on a broom is—Harry admits—really appealing. But what happened is even _better_. “Blimey!”

“No.”

“Then how did you fly here, Harry?” Hermione asks and she looks a little annoyed that he won’t just tell them. “Magic carpets are illegal nowadays and I highly doubt Mister Fell has one of those.” She pauses. “Professor Crowley might though.”

Harry laughs. “He might, I don’t know,” he says and his grin grows at Hermione and Ron’s faces now. “We didn’t use a magic carpet or brooms or anything else that wizards have made fly.”

Both of his friends frown.

“Then how?” Hermione demands and she sounds so very annoyed now because Harry’s not making sense and Harry loves that he doesn’t make sense but Hermione likes logic too much.

Harry looks around the common room before leaning closer to his friends who lean forward automatically. He gives them a sly smile and his green eyes spark with absolute delight. “Uncle ‘Zira has wings,” he says, “he’s an angel.”

Hermione and Ron stare at him for a long time before they both snort.

“Okay fine don’t tell us how you got here!” Ron exclaims, rolling his eyes. “Wings! Ha! Where would he even hide them? No wizards have wings!”

“Angels are Christian myth Harry,” Hermione says. “They don’t exist.”

“Neither do witches or wizards or griffins or dragons if you ask a muggle,” Harry shoots back. “Just because you haven’t seen an angel doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“Just because you don’t understand how you got to Hogwarts doesn’t mean your uncle is an angel, either,” Hermione fires back at him. “Obviously he just used some sort of levitation spell.”

“He’s an angel, Hermione!” Harry hisses. “Why do you think he doesn’t use a wand? He doesn’t need one. Neither does uncle Crowley.”

“They’re just really good at wandless magic then,” Hermione says and Ron—who has been watching his friends argue with each other over this—leans forward.

“That’s not really how wandless magic works, Hermione,” he says sort of timidly. The girl turns a glare on him. “Don’t look at me like that! It doesn’t. Professor Crowley doesn’t use magic like the rest of us. Mister Fell either. Harry’s right about that,” he continues, giving Harry a supportive look. “I don’t think angels exist, but I do know that there’s way more powerful things than witches and wizards in the world.”

“Oh?” Hermione asks and it’s rather mocking. “Like what? Because none of the books in the library mention anything being stronger than a witch or wizard.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “That’s because those books are written by witches and wizards,” he says slowly because, really, that makes all the difference. “You don’t read books written by racists saying nice things about black people do you? Or books written by misogynists. And what about all those books that talk about eugenics like it’s a good thing!”

“But all of the books in the library can’t be wrong Harry!”

Harry snorts. “Why? Because they all say the same thing?” he asks but it’s not really a question. Hermione still opens her mouth to answer him but he continues before she can. “Hermione, all the books in the library about Voldemort that mention me all say the same thing and they’re all wrong. Half of them don’t even mention that I’m a half-blood! Just because something is written doesn’t make it true, just well-known. Books are just that, books. They have knowledge and information in them but they’re not always right. Sometimes they’re completely wrong and no one thinks to question them because they’re books. You’re smarter than that Hermione. You are.”

Hermione is staring at Harry. Ron is staring at Harry.

“Uncle ‘Zira told me that himself and you both know how much he loves books,” Harry adds and both nod at him. “Uncle Crowley once told me that knowledge doesn’t always mean understanding. That sometimes you have to decide what is really knowledge and what is just information. Not all information is right, just like not all knowledge is good. It’s why kids are told about Santa and most parents let them figure out Santa isn’t real on their own right? Because you have to decide if something is right, true, good, or the opposite.”

Hermione nods slowly, reluctantly. “Okay Harry, you’re- you’re right,” she says, biting her lip. “I don’t think I can believe you about Mister Fell being an angel but—if anyone could be one, it’d be him.”

Ron nods. “Definitely,” he agrees, “he’s definitely nice enough to be an angel.”

“Do you believe me?” Harry asks Ron and the ginger boy shrugs.

“I don’t not believe you,” he replies and Harry figures that’s good enough.

“Okay then.”

The trio drop the discussion there, shifting instead to leave the common room and head down to the Great Hall for dinner. If there is some awkwardness between them it dissipates soon enough.

Aziraphale informs Crowley as to what happened with the platform wall the moment he arrives at Hogwarts, foregoing his usual visit to the library before hunting down his demonic counterpart. It speaks to how annoyed Aziraphale is about the situation that he finds Crowley in the defence classroom and instantly goes off on a diatribe about obnoxious walls, determined creatures, and miracles designed to protect children from the wind chill factor.

Crowley is—as is typical with his angel—patently amused until he processes the general gist of Aziraphale’s rant. Then he is angry.

“It did what!”

Aziraphale pauses in his diatribe to look at the demon who is now stood up and stalking toward the angel. “I don’t think it meant to cause injury,” the angel says, realising that Crowley is angry in a Dangerous Way.

The demon—for all that he loses his temper and snaps and snarls at things—tends to not get angry in a Dangerous Way. Aziraphale has perhaps known Crowley to get that angry twice in six thousand years. Both times involved children.

This is third and it also involves a child.

Harry is not just any child however. Harry is theirs. That makes the anger even more dangerous.

“I don’t care!” Crowley snarls. “Where is it?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I sent Dobby away,” the angel answers, reaching out and touching Crowley’s arm. The demon allows the touch and Aziraphale knows that Crowley is not so angry yet that he can’t handle contact. That alone reassures Aziraphale that this won’t end in the unfortunate demise of a house-elf[3].

Possibly.

“You didn’t kill it!”

Aziraphale gives Crowley a hard stare. “No, I most certainly did not,” he says and there’s steel in the angel’s voice that draws Crowley’s attention. “It was only doing what it thought best for Harry.”

“For Harry?” Crowley spits, looking and sounding like a cat that has just been dunked in a bucket of water for a wash. “What the fuck? That- that’s bollocks!”

Aziraphale’s hand on Crowley’s arm tightens, keeping the demon close and focused on the angel himself. “Dobby is aware of a threat to Harry’s safety here at Hogwarts, although he cannot say what—because of magical ties to whatever family he serves—” Aziraphale forestalls Crowley’s snarky questions “—and believed that preventing Harry from returning to Hogwarts would protect him. Obviously, I’ve corrected the poor thing on that notion,” Aziraphale says. “He reminded me of those humans that Hawkins[4] fellow brought to England in 1554,” he confesses quietly.

Crowley’s anger burns out at the confession. “Really?” he asks and his voice is softer, more controlled, calmer. Aziraphale nods. “Shit. Thought slavery was outlawed in Britain two hundred years ago?”

“Apparently that does not extend to non-human creatures in wizarding Britain,” Aziraphale says a little bitterly.

Crowley’s features darken. “That’s not right.”

“It isn’t no, though I’m not sure what can be done about it,” Aziraphale agrees, sighing a little. “I had so hoped this awful slavery business would be done with when they outlawed it.”

“Nah, it’s not over.” Crowley shakes his head. “There’s a whole industry of slave trading—human trafficking—still going strong. Hastur got a commendation for dropping the idea into a human’s head a few centuries ago,” he explains heavily. There’s disgust in the demon’s voice.

Aziraphale echoes the disgust with his face. If there is one thing Crowley hates most of all it is the subjugation of free will. Those forced into slavery have no free will, thus Crowley hates slavery[5].

“We’re not saving the world angel,” Crowley says, looking at Aziraphale with an expression the angel can identify after thousands of years of knowing him; it’s a look that says ‘We Are Not Able To Fix Everything Even If We Want To’ and ‘I Know How You Feel And I Feel The Same But We Can’t’ with a dash of ‘If We Did This Then Where Do We Stop?’

Aziraphale—much as he wishes to do otherwise—accepts Crowley’s argument. For now. Of course, although Aziraphale accepts the demon’s logic, the angel isn’t going to just forget the topic. He may not be able to do much without causing Problems, but he can at least try and make life a little easier for a house-elf that wants to protect Harry as much as Crowley and himself do.

“Some things you can’t change,” Crowley mutters and it sounds sad and bitter and just a little bit like an admission from the demon.

“Some things you can,” Aziraphale says softly, gently, and the demon looks at him. “If you’re willing to take the risk of trying.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Sure,” he says, “because you’d know all about taking risks angel.”

Aziraphale feels the sting of those words. He feels it deeply. Because, for Crowley, Aziraphale always takes risks. They may not be the types of risks that the demon expects him too—no great shout at heaven that he’s siding with a demon—but they’re risks nonetheless. He took a risk with giving Crowley holy water. He took a risk agreeing to their Arrangement. He took a risk in not fighting a demon that had just slithered up beside him on the wall after tempting humanity to sin.

Aziraphale took risks with Crowley and he was both proud and reluctant to admit that he did such.

“When bad men combine, the good must associate,” Aziraphale says and he moves his hand on Crowley’s arm down and gently touches the demon’s hand. “Else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle[6].”

Crowley groans. “Seriously?”

Although Crowley is annoyed with him, Aziraphale notes that the demon doesn’t pull away when the angel slips his fingers between Crowley’s own and entwines their hands together.

“Fine, we’ll do something about it angel,” the demon relents and Aziraphale smiles. This is how they interact, how they work things out. This give and take, push and pull, disagree and accept.

Their relationship is one that Aziraphale still does not understand. He simply chalks it up to it being Ineffable.

Harry meets Ron’s new familiar—technically old but new for Ron—the first night back at Hogwarts. The ginger boy had forgotten to mention his familiar to Harry when the other boy had not shown on the train and then there had been that Argument about belief and knowledge and some other stuff that Ron didn’t like to really think about.

So it’s understandable that Harry is only introduced to Ron’s pet when Crookshanks tries to eat it and claws Harry’s arm when the boy grabbed the cat to prevent said eating.

Scabbers is a rat. A rat that Crookshanks wants to eat, judging by the way the cat yowls and tries to escape Harry’s firm hold on it. Ron is trying to keep Scabbers from fleeing inside his mattress when Seamus opens the door to their dorm and shouts at Harry to throw the damned cat out.

Unfortunately for Harry, Ron, and Seamus, Hermione is stood outside their dorm. She had obviously gone looking for her wayward familiar and is thus in prime place to witness Harry half drag, half throw said familiar out of the doorway while there is the sound of Ron yelling obscenities in the background.

Hermione grabs Crookshanks and gives the cat a once over, murmuring sweet nothings at the cat that has just clawed Harry and tried to murder Ron’s own pet. It is particularly typical of anyone who owns a cat.

Then she turns her attention to Harry.

“Your cat just tried to kill Ron’s pet,” Harry says immediately, before the girl can hurl any accusations at him. He did just hurl her cat out of his dorm so accusations are expected. He’s just not in the mood for them, clutching his arm and tenderly poking the deep gouges along the forearm. He’s going to have to see Madame Pomfrey for them—they’ve very deep. “And clawed me.”

“Crookshanks is a cat, Harry, that’s what cats do,” Hermione responds hotly but there’s concern in the girl’s face when she sees how tenderly Harry’s holding his arm. She might be angry at him for throwing her cat, but her anger is outweighed by her love for her friend. Thankfully. “You’re going to need to go to the infirmary for that. Kneazles are known for having highly infectious bacteria on their claws; it’s a method for weakening prey.”

Harry grimaces. “Great.”

“How’s Ron’s pet?” Hermione asks after a moment. She’s stroking Crookshanks who is calm and comfortable in her embrace—again, a typical act by a cat when it’s in the mood to annoy a victim.

“Alive,” Harry answers and Hermione lets out a sigh. “We woke up before Crookshanks could get him but it was close. I think Scabbers might be in his mattress or possibly somewhere else that he can hide.”

“I’ll try and keep Crookshanks out of your dorm,” Hermione promises and Harry nods. “There might be a charm I can use if he ignores me.”

“Maybe avoid Ron for a day or two as well,” Harry suggests and Hermione nods.

“I’ll apologise to him tomorrow, not now,” she says. “I can only guess how upset he is right now.”

Harry hums. Upset isn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe Ron’s mood right now. More like murderously angry.

“Come to the infirmary with me?” He asks instead and Hermione nods.

Harry waits at the portrait entrance for Hermione to lock Crookshanks in his carrier—magically enlarged so that he has a decently-sized space to roam—after telling Seamus he’s heading the infirmary.

Ron is still busy trying to coax Scabbers from the top of his four-poster—how he got there none of them are quite sure but it’s definitely a decent spot to hide since there’s a lot of spots to hide up there—and doesn’t accompany Harry and Hermione to the infirmary.

Madame Pomfrey is displeased to be woken up by students in the early hours of the morning—just past three o’clock—but puts her displeasure aside when she sees Harry’s arm and learns the scratches are from a Kneazle. Hermione chooses to stay in the infirmary—Madame Pomfrey giving her permission to sleep in one of the beds—and Harry is given a half-dozen potions to take and ordered into bed to sleep.

Crowley and Aziraphale hear about his attack by feline the next day when he attends classes with an arm in a sling—an undesired situation that Madame Pomfrey had given him no opportunity to refuse—and the boy is promptly cornered by them both and has to explain what happened.

Crowley promises to terrorise the cat into never entering the boys dorm again but Aziraphale tells him that’s not acceptable—the cat is Hermione’s familiar after all—and Harry is allowed to go on his way when demon and angel get distracted arguing about something the boy has absolutely no idea of.

Unfortunately for everyone, Lockhart returns to the school a day after spring term, bringing with him tales of exotic peoples and great perils that sounds like some colonialist fantasy glorifying exploitation of other civilisations. Needless to say, it doesn’t win him much favour with the staff or any student with common sense.

Harry and Ron both uniformly despise Lockhart enough that they engage in some childish pranks that causes Ron’s older brothers to pay them more attention than before[7]. It is inevitable that the twins join in with Harry and Ron’s pranks on Lockhart to the point of revealing the secret to their success as pranksters.

The Marauders map is revealed to Harry James Potter a year ahead of schedule due to the intricate changes to the universe as a result of Crowley taking the Boy Who Lived from his blood family and deciding to raise him with an angel. This is—additionally—a good thing.

“Who’s Peter Pettigrew?” Harry asks, frowning. “Is he a Gryffindor?”

Fred, or George—Harry can’t yet tell them apart—shrugs. “Don’t know,” he says, “we’re used to his name being in Percy’s dorm though not yours. Wonder why it’s there.”

“Could it be a glitch?” Harry looks at the map. “Like it’s got a fault and shows up random names?”

“Maybe, but it’s never shown us any other name and we’ve checked the student lists before to make sure,” George—or Fred—answers. “Our best guess is whoever this Peter Pettigrew is, they’re a ghost.”

“The map shows ghosts?” Ron goggles at the map. “What about animals? Does it show where everyone’s familiar is? I can see Mrs Norris there—” he points at the map, finger directing them to focus on the Astronomy tower “—so it must do, right?”

“Oh yeah, it shows ghosts and familiars. Even the house-elves in the kitchens!” Fred—or George—says grinning at their brother. “But not regular animals. Basically anything that has a name—like us, or familiars.”

“Cool,” Harry says, grinning. The Weasley twins grin back.

In the same manner that the Marauders map is revealed to Harry a year early due to changes in the Standard Flow in the universe, the first attack of the year occurs three days after spring term, giving students everywhere a significant fright and Draco Malfoy the perfect opportunity to gleefully shout about how ‘Mudbloods best watch out!’

This, naturally, riles Harry and Ron up quite a lot—Hermione is a little more level-headed than the two boys, but only just—and they hatch a plan to interrogate the Slytherin boy about this Chamber of Secrets and the monster supposedly hiding within it.

Aziraphale and Crowley make their own plans regarding the opening of the Chamber—although their plans revolve around bullying Dumbledore into telling them what the fuck the Chamber of Secrets actually _is_ and _where_ it is.

Both groups carry out their plans within a month of term starting and both groups hit problems along the way.

First is Harry and Ron getting detention from Lockhart for hexing Malfoy after the boy made another ill-advised comment about mudbloods. Then Crowley and Aziraphale are both waylaid with miracles and temptings to perform that require a lot more of their attention than either wish to allot to them.

Hermione manages to wrangle permission from Lockhart for a book in the restricted section and the trio get on with brewing an illegal potion in a girls lavatory that is inhabited by a teenage ghost with a mildly unhealthy interest in Harry.

Crowley corners Dumbledore in the headmasters office and gets the basics about the Chamber from the man—although Dumbledore does his utmost to dally about until Crowley tells him in no uncertain terms that he _will_ ruin the man’s wardrobe until the end of time if he doesn’t just tell him what he wants to know.

Unfortunately for Crowley and Aziraphale’s plan, there is no actual knowledge as to _where_ the Chamber is located and no information about whatever creature is inside it. This leaves them rather stumped as to what they can do to solve the issue.

Mrs Norris—the familiar of Argus Filch—is petrified by the creature but hasn’t died. This at least gives the demon and angel something to work with and both of them get to work trying to figure out what exactly can petrify a living thing. Naturally they consider gorgons but the last known gorgon in Europe was murdered in 302AD by a spear-happy soldier. Those that have come after don’t really have the _umpf_ to petrify anything unless there’s several of them working together.

Crowley works with Pomfrey to try and counter the effects of petrification but finds that he can’t heal the cat because it’s not technically injured. The petrification is unfortunate but it’s something that isn’t actually harming the cat and thus he’s kind of stuck with it unless he performs a miracle and draws attention to the situation—healing is easy but reversing something that freezes an object in time gets the attention of everyone, heaven and hell; Crowley isn’t quite willing to draw _that_ much attention to himself. _Yet_.

It leaves them even more stumped because that level of dilation of time is not easily achieved and Aziraphale can’t think of a single creature capable of such that isn’t an angel or demon. Divine and infernal interference is about the _only_ thing the can rule out with absolute certainty.

The school settles back into its regular rhythm when there isn’t another attack and Harry and Ron entertain themselves with flying on the pitch whenever they can. Harry managed to get on the team as seeker but Ron—having a preference for chaser or keeper—hadn’t due to no space. It leaves Ron a little jealous of his friend but, overall, pleased when Harry lets him use the flaming broom instead of the slow school brooms.

The day the Polyjuice potion is ready turns out to be a fantastic day for infiltrating the enemy encampment—Slytherin common room—as it’s a relatively decent day outside and they overhear Malfoy telling Crabbe and Goyle that he’s going to write a letter to his mother and to not bother him in their dorm room. Harry and Ron manage to waylay the two Slytherin boys who follow Malfoy around, tricking them with cupcakes laced with a sleeping draught made by Hermione. This enables them to assume the identities of Crabbe and Goyle with little fanfare.

Hermione’s situation however is less lucrative. She takes hair from Millicent Bulstrode—a tall, imposing second year Slytherin who has singled Hermione out in class for reasons unknown. Bulstrode is hiding in the library, writing a potions essay when Hermione manages to snag some loose hair from the girls robe but the hair—it turns out—isn’t human.

Thus Harry and Ron find themselves entering Slytherin common room alone while Hermione goes and presents herself to Madame Pomfrey in her… dishevelled state.

Malfoy is—as usual—annoying and irritating, insulting them both and making snide comments about Ron’s family that have the boy turning red with anger. Harry manages to ask Malfoy the questions they want answered and are disappointed when it turns out Malfoy has no idea who the Heir of Slytherin is, what the creature is, or where the Chamber of Secrets is located. They do, however, learn that Malfoy is determined to get a broom like Harry’s in order to ‘knock Potter off his fancy broom!’.

Hermione remains in the infirmary for three weeks as opposed to the initial number of six that Madame Pomfrey had stated at the start. The reduced time in the hospital wing is the result of Crowley’s intervention in Hermione’s care.

The demon had been amused and delighted to see Hermione with feline eyes—eyes that matched Crowley’s own—but had pushed that aside when the girl had burst into tears over how she looked. That had resulted in Crowley becoming very soft and gentle in a manner not at all typical of the demon, as he had comforted the girl and informed her that it didn’t matter how she looked but how she acted. She could look like the ugliest person in the world but the only really ugly people would be the ones who picked on her for her appearance.

This—coming from someone who, depending on the day, wore dress robes or an actual dress, jeans or a rather revealing sort of shirt and very tight leather trousers—reassured Hermione in a manner that all the conversations with her parents about her looks couldn’t. Crowley was different and stood out and revelled in his difference.

He did not know it, but that conversation decided for Hermione Jane Granger something Very Important to her future.

Valentines Day arrives and the whole school is abuzz with valentines messages interrupting lessons left and right until several professors run out of patience and block any dwarf with a message from entering their classrooms.

Aziraphale simply asks them to deliver their messages a little more quietly since ‘this _is_ a library you know’ and the dwarven messengers do as requested because they sense _something_ about Aziraphale that they don’t sense in anyone else except the dauntingly grumpy Care of Magical Creatures professor who sicced a bunch of snakes on them the first time they went to deliver a valentines[8].

Harry and Ron are heading back to Gryffindor tower after visiting the library when they’re distracted by the sound of cursing and flowing water. They follow the noise and discover that Myrtle has flooded her bathroom again, forcing Filch to mop up a lot of water that’s flowed out into the hall. They watch the caretaker storm off—in search of another bucket incidentally—before sneaking into the bathroom and witnessing the mess for themselves.

Myrtle informs them of the reason for her flooding the bathroom and Harry—being Harry—takes the reason with him to the tower and hides away in his bed to study it. This is how Harry discovers that some books shouldn’t be touched and that he shouldn’t just Do Things because he thinks he should.

This is also how Harry learns about the Chamber of Secrets and Hagrid’s connection to it.

The diary of Tom Marvolvo Riddle tells Harry a lot of things about Hagrid’s involvement in the death of a student fifty years prior and Harry figures out that the student was Myrtle, causing him to feel somewhat sympathetic for the ghost with a strange fascination with him. The diary is _also_ the cause of the boys dorm getting trashed the next day—mainly because someone wrecked Harry’s belongings and only the diary was missing.

It is an interesting end to the spring term and a warning that the rest of the school year is about to get _a_ _lot_ more messy.

* * *

* * *

[1] In Harry’s defence, the boy is only twelve and has two adults looking out for him at all times. Granted, those adults are generally awful at their own respective jobs but they happen to be very good at caring for Harry. Thus they protect him from a lot of things that, in another universe, he would have had to deal with alone. This protection affects the strands of time in the universe, shaping events in endlessly complex and contradictory ways. It is, in effect, an ineffable situation understood by only One Being.

[2] Forgiven by Hermione and only begrudgingly by Ron and Harry. Both boys have had to charm their bed covers to prevent Crookshanks from sticking a paw under them and scratching their toes.

[3] Aziraphale has no doubt that Crowley will end the existence of the house-elf without any regret if he feels the need to. In truth, Aziraphale only hesitated in ending the creature’s existence when it had shied away from him, trembling, with a sort of terror that the angel had seen before on the faces of slaves. It had made him pause long enough to think about the Why of the house-elf’s actions and to decide to send Dobby on his way with a strict warning to Stop It Now because Aziraphale would not show him such a mercy again. The house-elf had taken Aziraphale’s threat to heart—he hopes—and left quickly. Harry—fortunately—had been none-the-wiser as to the cause of his missing the train.

[4] The Hawkins fellow that Aziraphale is referring to here happens to be an Elizabethan seafarer by the name of John Hawkins from Plymouth. An Admiral and given the fancy title of Sir, Hawkins is acknowledged as the “pioneer of the English Slave Trade” in the sixteenth century. Hawkins formed a slave trading syndicate in 1554 and over four voyages is estimated to have transported 1,500 slaves from Africa across the Atlantic. He was stopped by a skirmish with some Spaniards where he lost five out of seven ships in 1568. Unfortunately he didn’t die with his ships. Hawkins is—for both Aziraphale and Crowley—an all-round detestable human being that is suffering grandly in hell and deserves every ounce of agony he is still experiencing to this day.

[5] Crowley hates slavery so much that he has gone out of his way to completely fuck up human trafficking rings, sex trafficking rings in the present day. This continues a tradition of the demon’s wherein he fucks up the lives of slavers by sinking their ships—after freeing their ‘cargo’—and sending their slavers running in terror at the sight of a giant, writhing nightmare coming at them during their ‘search’ for slaves. Aziraphale doesn’t know the specifics of Crowley’s actions over the centuries but the angel knows of some of them since he’s received memos from heaven congratulating him on Saving Souls relating to these actions.

[6] This is a saying from Edmund Burke that Aziraphale finds rather favourable to his morals. It compliments the angel’s principle philosophical stance on good and evil that Saint Thomas of Aquinas presents as The Problem of Evil. Evil contains the seeds of its own destruction as it is inherently a negative experience and cannot, therefore, succeed over good. Needless to say, whenever Aziraphale brings up these two individuals and their opinions—influential on western human society—Crowley rolls his eyes a lot and performs petty acts to irritate the angel in recompense; acts that almost always end with Crowley being ignored by Aziraphale and thus suffering himself, thereby proving Aziraphale’s point about the self-defeating nature of evil.

[7] They are able to perform several highly enjoyable pranks on the defence professor including turning his office desk into a pile of snakes—politely requested by Harry to not actually bite the man but thoroughly terrify him; something the snakes gleefully agree to—and charming his portraits to burp continuously every time the professor opens his mouth to speak. These pranks are only made possible through the use of a cloak gifted to Harry by an unknown individual. The cloak had appeared on his bed two days after term began with a note stating that it had been left in the person’s possession and belonged to Harry’s father. As such it was greatly coveted by the twelve-year-old who had yet to mention it to his uncles.

[8] Several valentines had, interestingly enough, been for Crowley from a variety of students—and one or two staff members. Those valentines had been met with a blank stare and a quiet “what the fuck is wrong with you people” before the snakes had been summarily summoned and sicced on the dwarven messengers. Only one valentine hadn’t elicited this response from the demon—it had been a message none of the students or dwarves understood but it made perfect sense to the demon: “a little less slow if you please”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things be hotting up now lmao
> 
> As always, comments and kudos sustain me ~~I look at my inbox and I want to answer ya'll but I'm literally screaming at the number of comments omfddguggg~~


	4. The Year Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I told you Hermione,” Harry says, “uncle ‘Zira is an angel and uncle Crowley is a demon. That’s why he’s got snake eyes.”
> 
> Hermione huffs. “Angels and demons don’t _exist_ Harry.”
> 
> Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Hear that angel,” he says, looking at Aziraphale. “We don’t exist apparently.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! I am done. I am dead. Goodbye. I'm exhausted. I'm in pain. I just want to sleep. Dear heavens why did I ever think this was a good idea it's ten thousand words long jfc.
> 
> Anyway. Yeah. Enjoy lol.

Term starts up again with the sort of flourish term normally starts up with; mild elation at seeing friends again and the sudden, crippling realisation that exams are soon and homework aplenty. Harry—and the other second years—choose their third year subjects a week after term restarts. Harry—like Ron—chooses his subjects with less Thought and Deliberation and more ‘Oh I hope I don’t hate this one’. He keeps on with Care of Magical Creatures but picks up Arithmancy, Runes—both Ancient and Modern, which are Quite Different Apparently—and the much more accurate Muggle Studies[1]. The difference between Harry and Ron’s approach however lies in how Harry is a little more invested in learning new things because he Likes To Learn whereas Ron is just doing what is easiest[2].

“Ron you can’t just close your eyes and pick randomly!” Hermione is horrified by Ron’s lack of consideration for his future. Harry is a little torn between being impressed by his friend and concerned himself.

“Why not?” Ron asks, shrugging and doing precisely what Hermione says he can’t. “Not that difficult when I leave it up to blind chance,” he says, opening his eyes and looking at the subject he’s blindly picked. “See.”

Hermione rolls her eyes at him. “And what if you end up picking—I don’t know—Arithmancy or something that you don’t want to do?” Her tone of voice is a little sharp, perhaps a little nasty but it rolls off Ron like water rolls off a duck.

“Pick a different one,” he replies nonchalantly and Hermione groans. “Oh, hey, Divination. Should be easy. George picked that one and always says it’s an easy pass.”

“We’ll have only one class together beside the core ones,” Harry comments, looking at Ron a little sadly. He’d like his friend to be in his classes with him but, sometimes, it’s necessary to choose options for yourself and not Because You Want To Be With Your Friend All The Time. In another lifetime Harry might have chosen the same classes as Ron. In another lifetime Harry might not have cared about his future or what any adults really thought of the subjects he took. In another lifetime Harry would have been very used to Relying Only On Himself.

Fortunately, this is _not_ that lifetime.

“That’s all right,” Ron says and means it. “At least I’ll have the easiest homework out of the three of us,” he jokes and Harry laughs.

Crowley gives Harry free reign for one night—and one night _only_ —to ask the demon every question the boy can think of regarding Arithmancy and Runes but retains the right to not answer depending on how Dangerous the topic is. This pleases Aziraphale who remarks to the demon—after they’ve settled down for the night—that Crowley ‘quit suits this parenting lark’. Crowley, naturally, responds with a ‘right back at you’ that makes the angel blush _beautifully **[3]**_.

The diary remains hidden in Harry’s belongings as, after the revelation of it regarding Hagrid, the boy had been reluctant to give it to his uncles because it could have more information about the Chamber. Logic told Harry that he ought to trust his uncles, that he needn’t be the Hero and fight the fight for everyone, but logic is easily ignored if one is adept at rationalising one’s actions to the point of making even the more irrationally illogical action perfectly reasonable[4].

Fortunately for Harry, he has two friends are a little more practical and not as averse to trusting adults—though Ron, as the second youngest and last boy of a group of six is a little used to taking care of things himself because ‘well, mum’s always busy shouting at the twins, or cooing about Percy and Ginny’ which he is not at all bitter about[5]—and needle the black-haired boy until he eventually caves and agrees to Tell Them.

Of course, just as can be expected with Harry’s luck, the moment he decides to actually tell Aziraphale and Crowley, the diary goes missing. His belongings are strewn around the dorm room, bed mostly in tatters save for the sturdy wooden frame, and Ron looks as disturbed as Harry when they realise only the diary is missing from his belongings.

* * *

“Harry,” Aziraphale says and everyone can hear the Disappointment in his voice. “You really ought to have told us about this sooner.”

“Sorry uncle ‘Zira,” Harry says rather lamely. “I just- I don’t know, I wanted to but didn’t. I don’t know why.”

Crowley ruffles Harry’s hair, reassuring the boy with the act. “Because you’re a teenager soon,” Crowley quips, making Harry smile slightly. “Just starting the rebellious phase a little early is all.”

Aziraphale gives Crowley an unimpressed look but doesn’t say anything because Harry is looking a little less guilty and upset about everything now. “What—you mentioned something about the book—diary— _showing_ you things?”

Crowley focuses on Harry’s nervously twitching fingers and Aziraphale recognises the look on the demon’s face as a look of realisation—what the realisation is, Aziraphale doesn’t know, but he has no doubt Crowley will tell him.

“I- it- my bag split on the way to Transfiguration the day I found it in the girls bathroom on the third floor,” Harry says looking at them both. “All my books were covered in ink but the diary- it was completely dry. I checked it later in the dorm and tested it with more ink and—well I wrote in it because I was curious. It kept absorbing the ink and not really doing anything until I wrote my name.”

“What did it do when you told it your name?” Crowley is tense—tenser than Aziraphale has seen the demon since those days last year with that shade on Quirrell’s head—and the sight does little to reassure the angel.

“It talked to me.”

“What—ah—what did it say?” Aziraphale asks gently and Harry sort of shrugs.

“Told me it’s name was Tom Riddle and that it was the diary of a student who had been at Hogwarts the last time the Chamber was opened,” Harry answers—a little reluctantly, but he answers nonetheless—and Aziraphale sees how Harry’s shoulders hunch a little as though the child expects to be punished.

Truthfully, Aziraphale would love to reprimand Harry for not telling them about the diary sooner, but one glance at Crowley reveals that neither of them are willing to do so when Harry obviously feels bad enough about not telling them. It would do no good for Harry to be told off by them when he so obviously expects it and Aziraphale has no desire to hurt his son—yes, that’s what Harry _is_ , he’s accepted it—when he’s already hurting.

Instead, the angel reaches out and pulls Harry into his embrace, ignoring the slight flinch of Harry’s shoulders at the contact. The boy relaxes into his embrace, all-but melting against him seeking comfort and reassurance that Aziraphale _gladly_ gives.

“It’s all right Harry, I’m not mad; neither is Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, feeling Harry cling tighter to him, head burrowed in the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat. “We’re just worried dear heart.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, voice muffled by the soft beige coat and Aziraphale strokes his hair gently. “I was gonna tell you both, I promise, but it was like I just _couldn’t_.”

“It’s not your fault, Harry.”

Aziraphale and Harry both look at Crowley who seems grimmer than ever. The demon is looking at Harry with a tender expression in his serpentine eyes.

“Uncle Crowley?”

“I _mean_ _it_ ,” Crowley says, firm and Aziraphale frowns. “Things like that diary protect themselves. You’re only able to tell us now because you don’t have it anymore. It’s _not_ your fault.”

“I should have been able to ignore it though!” Harry exclaims, eyes wet and face a picture of angry self-loathing that Aziraphale wants to immediately sooth away.

“Listen to me Harry,” Crowley says and his voice is sharp and commanding. It’s the voice of a being that is not Kind or Gentle but is Powerful and Utterly Unrelenting. It’s the voice of someone who expects to be Listened To Now. It’s a voice Aziraphale seldom hears from the demon. But Harry stills and stares at the demon with wide-eyes. “You can’t fight things like that,” he continues voice still sharp and commanding. “It’s not something _anyone_ can fight. The compulsion is subtle, so subtle that you don’t notice it—it’s designed that way. You’re human Harry and that thing—whatever it really is—is evil of a type that you’ve never dealt with before. You can’t fight it because you have no idea what it is and how it works. This _isn’t_ your fault.”

Harry is silent, staring at Crowley with wide, emotion-filled eyes and Aziraphale feels the need to chip in. So he does.

“Your free will was taken from you by the diary, Harry,” Aziraphale explains, gently, and the boy looks at him. He doesn’t quite understand it, Aziraphale can tell, but Harry believes them which is what matters. “But you could have kept this from us, not told us about it at all when the diary was no longer controlling you.”

“I almost didn’t,” Harry admits. “Ron and Hermione convinced me.”

Aziraphale smiles benevolently and it’s a bright, warming smile that soothes aches and pains in Harry in ways the child will never realise. “But it was your choice to tell us,” he points out. “That counts for _far_ _more_ in the end.”

Harry is sent back to his common room—to his friends who are waiting for him and who he needs more reassurance off after telling his uncle’s everything—leaving Aziraphale and Crowley to Talk[6].

“Do you know what it—the diary—is?” Crowley looks at Aziraphale with the kind of expression one normally wears when asked a stupid question that is impossible to answer but still stupid nonetheless.

“Do I know what it is? What am I—God?” Crowley snaps and he’s irritated and worried and very, very afraid but Aziraphale doesn’t deserve the spite. “Sorry angel.”

Aziraphale, in his typical fashion, waves off Crowley’s apology, more focused on the situation than on feelings. The demon is aware that six thousand years of knowing each other enables Aziraphale to know when Crowley is just venting and to not take it personally when he gets snippy.

“It’s evil, that much we both can agree on,” Aziraphale says and Crowley nods because, yes, it is definitely evil. He hadn’t noticed it before but there had been echoes around Harry—so faint that Crowley could have easily mistaken them as faded impressions of his own demony-ness—that spoke of something Not At All Nice. “Do you know of any sort of evil that could—I don’t know—latch onto a physical form like a book?”

“We both know several angel,” Crowley replies, flicking his wrist and miracling a glass of wine into his hand. He throws back a considerable amount of it before speaking again: “that’s the problem. Too many options and no real way of narrowing it down.”

“Yes, quite.” Aziraphale miracles his own wine—the same vintage as Crowley’s—and together they drink their way through a considerable amount of alcohol in a short period of time.

Later, when they’ve drank what is probably far too much to be wise, they’re both sort of slumped on the sofa in their quarters, leaning into each other instinctively seeking the other out. It is a comfortable, affectionate scene that speaks of familiarity and trust built on shared experiences.

It’s all very sweet but Harry is in the midst of a nightmare at the same time, hissing out desperately in parseltongue that wakes Ron and has the ginger boy shaking his friend awake in a panicked rush.

* * *

“Harry!” Ron half-shouts, not quite loud enough to wake the other boys in the room—for it is well known boys sleep like the dead most of the time[7]—but more than enough to startle Harry awake. “Harry!”

The Indian boy comes to with a gasp, grasps at Ron’s hand on his shoulder and heaves out heavy breaths as the world of consciousness returns to him. “R-Ron?”

“Are you all right?” Ron asks, quieter and hushed but so full of concern for his friend that Harry seems to grip his hand tighter. The ginger boy is aware that Harry didn’t have a good childhood before the professors adopted him and he wonders if Harry was hurt by the people who were meant to love him. It’s heavy stuff for a twelve-year-old to think but Ron is nothing if not capable of being mature and responsible when his friends are in danger[8]. “Should I get your uncles?”

Harry shakes his head. “No,” he pants. “No, it was just- not fun.”

“Don’t think nightmares are meant to be fun, Harry,” Ron says with a little humour and is relieved when Harry cracks a smile at him. It’s weak but a smile is a smile and it counts. “Wanna talk about it?” He asks, a little nervously, a little cautiously, but determined. If Harry needs to talk to someone about his nightmares then Ron _will_ be there for his best friend.

Harry sort of shrugs. “It was weird,” he says after a moment. “Like I was reliving a memory not just having a—you know—nightmare.”

Ron bites his lip. “Think the diary…” he trails off, not wanting to finish the thought but Harry grimaces at him.

“Maybe,” the dark-haired boy says, “I didn’t have it long but- if uncle Crowley is right then it’s evil and maybe it—I don’t know—maybe it was… possessing me? Is that- can a book do that?” Harry looks at Ron and Ron can see the fear in his friends eyes, the fear Harry can’t quite hide.

“Dunno mate,” Ron answers, sitting on Harry’s bed. “Don’t know that much about dark magic and the like. We could ask Hermione or I could owl my dad and see if he might have an idea?”

“Wouldn’t your dad ask why you’re asking him though?”

Ron shrugs. “I’ve grown up with Fred and George lying to mum and dad since I can remember, not that hard to think something up; extra homework or maybe just say I overheard Malfoy saying something weird—dad would love to go and toss Malfoy manor again!”

Harry grins. “He really would, wouldn’t he?”

Ron gives Harry a grin himself and shoves up off Harry’s bed. “Right, I’ll do that tomorrow then,” the ginger boy says, returning to his own bed. “You be all right now?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, I need more sleep anyway.”

“Night Harry.”

“Night Ron.”

Hermione, as usual, dives into the library the moment Harry and Ron bring up the possibility of books possessing people. Ron still writes to his dad, figuring out the best way to word his letter with Harry offering up words he randomly finds in a thesaurus that’s seen better days. Some of the words are most certainly not the kind of words Ron would typically use but they sound smart and interesting and both boys accidentally commit them to memory[9].

“Do you think we should mention our theory about the Chamber?” Hermione asks Harry during a brief break in her systematic destruction of the library for information on people-possessing-books. “To your uncles, I mean.”

“Uh- didn’t think about it to be honest.” Harry blinks. “Probably a good idea, yeah? Maybe they’ll know about a student that died? Or can find out?”

“Can’t really hurt to ask can it?” Ron asks and the question is definitely rhetorical but Harry and Hermione both shrug. “Let me just finish this. I’ll take it to the owlery at lunch.”

Aziraphale—being the librarian—is watching the trio and other students with his many celestial eyes and notices the way Hermione has searched out books all about possession and sentient objects. It makes him worry enough to send a little celestial message to Crowley on the matter and the demon responds with a promise to see the angel as soon as his class is finished.

Incidentally, this means that when lunch arrives and the trio are about to head out of the library—their class having been cancelled because someone decided to try and exorcise Binns again and caused a bit of a disaster in the History of Magic classroom—Crowley appears in the doorway and gives the three of them a knowing look.

Aziraphale comes up behind them and the three children look between the two adults, realising that Aziraphale has indeed been paying attention to them in the library and no, they’re not quite as subtle as they thought they were. It’s a good lesson for them in the art of being sneaky but Crowley won’t point that out when there’s more important things to discuss.

Like possession.

* * *

“You didn’t tell us you were missing hours,” Crowley says as measuredly as he can while gripping the teacup in his hand with such a tight grip that the ceramic is starting to crack under the pressure.

“I- I wasn’t sure if I was,” Harry stutters awkwardly, head hanging so he doesn’t have to look at his uncles. Hermione and Ron bracket Harry on the sofa in their quarters, a plate filled with a selection of lunch options on the coffee table in front of it. Ron is happily munching away while Hermione rather nervously twists a napkin in her lap.

“You thought you were just zoning out, perhaps?” Aziraphale asks, calmer than Crowley but just as worried as the demon. The children can’t sense it but both angel and demon are well-aware of how concerned they are about this development.

Harry nods. “I thought maybe Quidditch was just exhausting me more, Oliver is going rabid over practices since Malfoy got on the Slytherin team.” Ron nods supportively, agreeing with Harry while Hermione rolls her eyes at the way Ron makes a supportive noise through a mouthful of ham butty[10].

“Well—that uh- that narrows down the options quite a bit really,” Aziraphale finally says after a moment and Crowley makes a disgusted noise.

“Not really angel,” the demon says, “just means we can rule out hexes and curses on the damned diary. Possession usually means demonic—or angelic—or something connected to souls.” Crowley grimaces. “I don’t know which of those I’d prefer.”

“Oh the souls, most certainly,” Aziraphale says, sipping his tea. “We can handle those without reporting to our head offices and—well—you know.”

Crowley’s grimace grows. “Fair point.”

Hermione looks between them, frowning in the way she does whenever she’s confused or doesn’t understand and _wants to_. Crowley still finds that sort of determined dedication to understanding and knowledge to be very—he wouldn’t say “adorable” but it is adorable—reminiscent of the first woman Crowley ever knew. It’s a high mark of praise for the witch but sometimes she chooses the _worst_ times to question things.

“What do you mean ‘head offices’?” Hermione asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“I told you Hermione,” Harry says, “uncle ‘Zira is an angel and uncle Crowley is a demon. That’s why he’s got snake eyes.”

Hermione huffs. “Angels and demons don’t _exist_ Harry.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Hear that angel,” he says, looking at Aziraphale. “We don’t exist apparently.”

“Really Crowley, now is _not_ the time,” Aziraphale says and Crowley just smirks. “Miss Granger—Hermione—I’m sure you have a lot of questions for us, but right now I do think it wise to focus on the matter of this diary. If what Harry was shown by it is accurate, then we may well be able to do something about this Chamber of Secrets and Slytherin monster. Which, I’m sure you agree, is a _good_ thing.”

Hermione—amusingly enough—looks visibly torn between agreeing with Aziraphale and arguing some more. Crowley finds the irritation the young lady is capable of expressing without saying a word to be fantastically entertaining; especially when she’s irritated at his angel and said angel is enjoying the frustration _just_ _a little_.

“Oh fine!” Hermione gives Aziraphale a sharp look that is brilliant for Crowley to witness. “But I’m not going to drop this!”

“Of course not,” Crowley says, distracting the girl. “You’re human. Never drop nothing you lot; not even if it bites you.”

Harry snickers and Crowley throws him a smirk. Aziraphale rolls his eyes at Crowley’s antics but the focus is returned to the more important issues and the tension dissipates.

“So, probably something soul-related for the diary,” Crowley says suddenly, snapping up from the chair he’d sort of poured himself into earlier. Aziraphale gives him an unimpressed look for startling the kids with his sudden movement but Aziraphale gives him unimpressed looks for lots of things. “Shades, ghosts, demon-made deals, actual souls shoved in books, lots of options really.”

“But most have the same solution,” Aziraphale points out.

“What?” Ron looks at the librarian.

“Fire.”

Everyone looks at Hermione who is staring at Crowley with a determined look on her face.

Crowley nods. “Fire. Not any kind of fire though, hellfire would be best.” He frowned. “Guess that’s my job then.”

“What about Hagrid?” Harry asks suddenly. “The diary said that Hagrid opened the Chamber fifty years ago but if the diary is evil…” he trails off.

“Then maybe Hagrid isn’t the one who opened it then,” Ron finishes, nodding. “Maybe it was that Riddle kid? He sounded kinda slimy with all his awards; like he was making up for something or trying to show off.” Ron looks at Harry. “ _And_ you said he was a Slytherin!”

“Oh don’t believe that rubbish about one house being evil,” Crowley tells Ron, rolling his eyes. “Only thing for Slytherin is all the ‘purebloods’ and money they have. Makes the lot of them entitled, not evil.” He pauses. “Definitely stupid though.”

Aziraphale bites back a sound that is suspiciously like a laugh making Crowley smirk at the angel. “Yes well, be that as it may,” the angel says, tugging lightly on his lapels in a nervous gesture. “We really ought to send you lot off to your classes before lunch is over. Crowley and I will speak to Hagrid about the Chamber and see what we can find out. Anything he knows might be helpful.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione immediately begin protesting at Aziraphale and Crowley ‘taking over’ their investigation until Crowley snaps his fingers and silences them.

“It’s like you three think you’re the only ones who can figure this stuff out.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “We’re gonna talk to Hagrid later tonight when you’re meant to be in your dorms since there’s a monster attacking students out and about. Just wait in the common room and we’ll tell you tomorrow what he says.”

Aziraphale gives Crowley a little disapproving look but really, the kids are already involved and this way they can try and mitigate the risk to the three of them. If they forbid them from getting involved, Crowley just knows they’ll go off and do stuff and not tell them about it. That’s not something that will end well so Crowley’s choosing a lesser of two evils—ha—and keeping them involved but not outright in danger.

Hagrid won’t want to talk about his past with the kids he feels close to—least of all Harry when the assistant-professor has grown pretty attached to the kid—and Crowley doesn’t think it would be fair to force him to just because the kids want to know.

“This isn’t about you,” he says quietly. “Do you think Hagrid is going to want to talk about this to you three? He won’t want to talk about it to us but it’s worse if you have to tell children you care for about things you’re ashamed of.”

Harry frowns. “What do you mean?” he mouths since Crowley still hasn’t returned their voices.

The demon snaps his fingers to do just that and Harry repeats his question.

“Imagine you’re Hagrid,” Aziraphale says, saving Crowley from having to explain it and really, Crowley just wants to curl up and avoid this topic but he started it so he’s going to stick around for it. “You have something you’re ashamed of, something that is connected to the death of someone and expulsion. You put it behind you and then suddenly it comes back and you have children who you teach, who trust you, asking you painful questions and maybe accusing you of doing things you might not have done.”

“Oh.” Harry looks down at his feet. The other children are similarly contrite.

“We’ll tell you what he says but give them man some dignity, _please_ ,” Crowley says, promises, begs, and all three kids nod. “Thanksss.”

* * *

That evening, Crowley and Aziraphale head to Hagrid’s cabin on the grounds, both of them nervous and reluctant to actually ask the assistant-professor about this but they needed to know.

They’re met at the door by Dumbledore who looks very not pleased behind that veneer of geniality, a blonde-haired man who just bleeds nastiness, and a short, pudgy-faced man with a bowler hat who seems rather harried.

Crowley hates both of them immediately.

“Honestly! This is becoming ridiculous!” The bowler-hat man exclaims and Crowley’s eyes narrow. He’s not wearing his sunglasses and the effect of his narrow-eyed stare is one that makes the short man pale when he looks at the demon. “Oh Merlin! What are you!”

“That’s a little rude,” Aziraphale comments, drawing the man’s attention to him and the bowler hat man blanches at the cold look on the angel’s face. “Manners maketh and such.”

“What’s going on?” Crowley asks, voice deceptively mild as he enters the cabin, forcing the bowler hat man to back up hastily to avoid him. Aziraphale follows the demon and closes the door with a gentle snap. No one is leaving the cabin without going through the angel—not an easy task considering the look in Aziraphale’s eyes either. “Nice little get together and you didn’t invite us Rubeus? I’m hurt.”

“Really dear, I’m sure Rubeus planned to invite us,” Aziraphale says, giving Hagrid a smile. The assistant-professor returns it weakly.

“Who are you?” The tall man with blonde-hair and a haughtier than haughty expression demands in the tone of voice one uses when they expect to be obeyed. Crowley wants to hiss at the man for that imperiousness alone. Reminds him too much of bossy angels and slave-driver demons.

“We’re teachers—well I am, he’s just the book lover,” Crowley points at Aziraphale who gives him a Really Dear look that makes Crowley’s lips quirk in a smirk. “Came down to have a chat with Rubeus actually, need to work on some lesson plans with him.”

“That- that won’t be happening,” the bowler hat man says, trying for firm but sounding a bit more like a child wanting to be in charge and failing. Crowley wants to give the man a reason to pass out from sheer terror but with Dumbledore in the room- Crowley settles for giving the man a nasty stare. It makes him recoil. “Ha- Hagrid will be coming with me.”

“Oh, got some important meeting you need him to attend? Some beast you can’t figure out? If it’s a snake I’m more than suitable for the task,” Crowley asks mockingly.

“T- there’s been four attacks on Muggleborns! The ministry _has_ to be seen t- t- to act! I have to do something and- and Hagrid—well—his past speaks for itself.” The man stutters, growing more confident as he goes. “I’m under a lot of pressure see, got to do something. If it isn’t- if Hagrid is innocent, then he can come back. But—well—I’m going to have to take him with me. There’s aurors waiting at the gates.”

“Take me!” Hagrid exclaims and he’s trembling from fear and it’s something that makes Crowley angry. He doesn’t like it when he sees someone afraid and isn’t sure they deserve it. It grates at him. “Take me where?”

“I- well- it- just for a little while,” the bowler hate man gets out and Hagrid lets out a scared whine that has Crowley stepping in front of his assistant.

“You can’t just detain someone without proof you know,” the demon says silky-smooth. He’s got his eyes locked on to the bowler hat man—who he suspects is the minister—and Crowley wants to just curl around him and _crush_. “You need evidence to justify holding someone.”

“Evidence! There’s- there have been four attacks!” Fudge exclaims. “That’s- that’s evidence enough!”

“Not against Rubeus it isn’t,” Aziraphale points out and the bowler hat man who might be Fudge gives him a glare. “Only that there’s someone carrying out attacks.”

“Unless you have actual evidence that proves Rubeus is behind this, you can’t take him.” Crowley is firm and refuses to back down now. Not now. Not when he can feel the fear from Hagrid, not when he can taste the anger and hate in the room from the blonde-haired man. Not when he’s all that stands between Hagrid and being caged liked an animal.

Hagrid hasn’t done anything to justify this punishment. It’s something Crowley just _knows_ like he knows how many stars are in the sky. It’s something… ineffable.

So no. He won’t be moving. Nothing can make him. Nothing.

“He was responsible for the attacks fifty years ago!” Fudge exclaims like that’s reason enough and maybe it is, but Crowley has no intention of giving the minister of idiocy any sort of In. “That is reason enough!”

“One student accuses another of being responsible, a monster of some sort escapes and the person assumed to be responsible is expelled,” Crowley recites what Harry told them verbatim. “That’s not really proof of guilt.”

“Plenty of room for reasonable doubt, I believe, dear,” Aziraphale adds from the door and Crowley nods.

“You’re not taking him.” Crowley stares Fudge down, eyes shining their serpentine gold and he can see the way the man is starting to sweat as instincts swell and tell him that he’s In Danger Right Now. The instincts are correct.

“Y- you can’t stop me! I’m the Minister for Magic!”

“And I’m a demon, big deal,” Crowley replies, utterly unimpressed with the almost childish tantrum Fudge is now giving him. “Minister for Magic means you run the country, not that you can do whatever you like idiot. Now get out.”

“I can do whatever I like!” Fudge stomps a foot and he really is a child, it’s crazy. The wizard in charge of Wizarding Britain is basically a five-year-old. How auspicious.

“You- you really can’t.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “I knew a fella who thought he could do what he wanted when he was in charge. Got his head lopped off by peasants for it. Wonder who’ll take your head.”

Fudge’s tantrum ends suddenly at Crowley’s words and the short wizard stares at him horrified. “You- you,” he stutters, “you’re threatening me?”

“Of course not,” Crowley says, “why threaten when you can just _do_? Besides, I don’t need to do a thing to you; you’ll get yours soon enough. Your type always do.”

“Amusing as this may be, I believe the reason for this visit is two-fold, minister,” the blonde-haired man drawls and Crowley really, really wants to hiss at him.

Fudge looks at him. “Ah yes, yes mister Malfoy, it is,” Fudge says and Crowley’s eyebrows rise a little in surprise.

 _This_ is Draco Malfoy’s father? It’s no wonder the kid is the way he is, Crowley realises. The man in front of him all but bleeds the kind of aura that would make any other demon salivate over a Really Good Meal.

“Albus,” Fudge says, looking at Dumbledore. “I- mister Malfoy- well… the board of governors had a vote after this latest attack on miss Clearwater—lovely family, can’t imagine how they’re feeling—and well- it’s been decided that you—this isn’t personal Albus, I do want you to know that—but well-”

“Oh just spit it out would you!” Crowley snarls and Fudge jumps. “Honestly, I’d rather listen to Hastur babbling on about a tempting than you right now.”

“The board of governors has unanimously voted to remove you as headmaster immediately,” Malfoy says smoothly, stepping forward. “It is felt that, considering the number of attacks that you have failed to prevent, it is necessary for action to be taken.”

Crowley snorts. “Oh I’m sure,” he mutters. “No proof against Rubeus means you can’t take him but a shiny little scroll with some signatures means you can displace Dumbledore. Sneaky.”

“Yeh can’t take Albus though!” Hagrid exclaims, horrified from behind Crowley. “The muggleborns won’t stand a chance!”

“Oh sure they will, because we’re gonna have a chat and you’re going to tell us what you know and then the angel and I are gonna sort it,” Crowley says, waving a hand.

Fudge stares at him. “What- what are you- you’re out of your mind.”

“Least I’ve got one to be out of.” Crowley turns away from Fudge who starts to realise he’s just been insulted. “Angel, see him out would you? I don’t think I’d send him anywhere nice if I do it.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says and with a snap of his fingers, obliges Crowley’s request. Fudge disappears mid-sentence and the silence after his disappearance is surprisingly welcome.

“That was quite impressive.” Malfoy looks at Aziraphale with a glint in his eyes. “Apparition isn’t possible on the grounds of Hogwarts as far as I’m aware.”

Crowley snorts.

“Ah well, that was—strictly speaking—not apparition,” Aziraphale explains a little awkwardly. “It was—uhm—well—”

“Magic,” Crowley quips. “Obviously.” He looks at Malfoy. “Weren’t you going to run off with a Dumbledore trailing after you? Some of us have things to be doing.”

Malfoy takes the hint—fortunately—and with a last calculating look at both of them, leaves Hagrid’s cabin. Dumbledore remains behind long enough to reassure Hagrid who seems more broken up about the headmaster leaving than he was about being dragged off to Azkaban. It’s not Crowley’s business, obviously, but that sort of thing does speak to a lot of dependency issues. Too much loyalty and too little common sense in his opinion.

Then again, Crowley’s opinion got him tossed out of heaven so maybe he was biased.

Aziraphale bustles about Hagrid’s cabin making tea for the assistant-professor who literally dropped into his chair the moment his door was shut. Crowley gives the large man—he’s got to be more than just a regular old human, maybe some giant in there?—an awkward pat on the shoulder before dropping down into a chair himself.

Hagrid probably wants to lament Dumbledore’s leaving but Crowley finds he has absolutely _no_ desire to discuss that affront to colour and fashion right now. So he decides to steer the conversation before it even starts by asking Hagrid outright to tell them about the Chamber.

“So, you got blamed for the Chamber and the dead student; wanna explain how and why your creature wasn’t to blame?”

Hagrid’s tired, pale face closes up—which is impressive when Crowley can see the tear-streaks running into the wiry beard from the man being so relieved to not be heading to Azkaban.

“We’re not asking because we think you were responsible, Rubeus,” Aziraphale explains, setting three large mugs of steaming tea on the table in front of them. He sits down next to Crowley and automatically the demon leans in a little toward the angel. “But anything you can tell us may help.”

“Yeh think yeh can find who’s attacking people?” Hagrid asks and he sounds dubious and doubtful but there’s a little spark of hopefulness there that Crowley can sense and that Aziraphale tugs on to help bloom. “I was just a kid an’ I liked takin’ care of creatures. People called ‘em all beasts and monsters but they weren’t. Just misunderstood an’ all tha’.”

Crowley shifts a little in his chair and Aziraphale places a hand on his leg, a reassuring weight that the demon focuses on. “So you were taking care of something that was probably dangerous to others?”

Hagrid lets out a noise. “No! No! He would never hurt anyone! He was just scared of bein’ in the castle! It wasn’t him!” The man grips the mug of tea in his hands and the liquid sloshes from the shaking limbs. “He just wanted to leave the castle but wouldn’t tell me why.”

“So your creature was afraid of something else?” Aziraphale frowns. “That suggests that it was something your beastly friend naturally feared; a predator perhaps?”

“It’d have to be a predator angel,” Crowley points out. “Don’t know that many prey animals that hunt fresh meat.”

Aziraphale grimaces. “Ah, yes, fair point.”

“What was your creature, Rubeus?” Crowley asks. “That’d help us narrow it down.”

Hagrid flushes a little and looks down at his mug. “He’s an acro….” He mumbles, trailing off at the end.

Aziraphale and Crowley look at each other. “A what?” Crowley asks.

Hagrid breathes out. “An Acromantula.”

Aziraphale frowns. “What—ah—what is that?” he asks looking at Crowley. “Crowley?”

The demon stares at Hagrid. “You…” he breathes slowly. “You had a giant man-eating spider as a kid?”

Aziraphale startles. “Oh- oh my, that- well.”

Hagrid looks at them both, glancing between them. “But he wouldn’t have hurt anyone! He couldn’t!” Crowley laughs. “No, he really couldn’t. I might be pants at magic but I weren’t so bad that I couldn’t make charms to keep ‘im where I had ‘im. Besides,” Hagrid adds, “an Acromantula gets someone and there’s nothin’ left to find really.”

Aziraphale shudders.

“He’s right,” Crowley says. “It wasn’t Hagrid’s pet people-eating spider. Something else attacked the students fifty years ago and is attacking them again now.”

“But what is it?” Aziraphale asks, looking very vexed.

“Dunno,” Hagrid answers. “But Aragog was dead scared of it. Refused to leave the Forest no matter what I said.”

Aziraphale looks at Hagrid. “The Forest?” He repeats and blinks. “The Forbidden Forest? Your- your beastly friend is in the Forbidden Forest?”

“Acromantula’s can live a long time.” Crowley ignores the noise Aziraphale lets out at that little bit of information, more focused on trying to think about what spiders are afraid of.

There’s birds of course, like any insect or arachnid, something with wings can pluck them up and have their merry way with them. Of course, Crowley doesn’t know of any magical bird that would try and pick a fight with an Acromantula. Neither did Hagrid either if he still hasn’t figured it out.

There’s snakes, as well, but snakes are—well—Crowley knows of every type of snake there is. He doesn’t know any snake that’s big enough to eat a giant version of a spider except for him when he feels like growing.

Toads, lizards, monkeys, all of them eat spiders but again, none so big as an Acromantula.

Crowley hisses out a sigh. “Whatever Aragog is afraid of, it’s got to be in the castle, which means it needs to be able to hide somewhere.”

Aziraphale and Hagrid both look at him.

“Yeh- yeh both believe me?” Hagrid asks timidly. Crowley and Aziraphale both nod—though Crowley rolls his eyes—and the large man smiles. “I- thank yeh both!”

Crowley waves a hand. “Don’t mention it. Really. Don’t.”

Aziraphale gives Hagrid a smile. “You’re welcome, Rubeus, but really, you ought to be listened to no matter what. Quite dreadful how you were treated,” he says and Hagrid’s smile turns watery from _feelings_.

Crowley sighs. Typical of the angel to go and do the feelings thing and make Hagrid love him. Not that Crowley can blame Hagrid—Aziraphale just has that affect on people. It’s the angel in him.

Crowley is more interested in the ‘little bit of bastard’ part truth be told.

* * *

Harry, Ron, and Hermione receive a sticky-note version of what happened in Hagrid’s cabin which leaves the three of them exchanging looks and obviously planning to do some intensive research on what could scare a giant spider so well. Crowley figures it’s safer to leave them to that than tell them not to get involved and only wants to slap himself with a handful of holy water after Hermione is petrified during the last Quidditch game of the year.

Crowley accompanies McGonagall when she takes Harry and Ron to the infirmary, intending to look at Hermione himself and hope—pray, he’ll even prey—that he can find something there to tell him what attacked her.

Of course, he’s stood next to McGonagall while Harry and Ron are flush against the hospital bed, quietly grieving and blaming themselves for leaving their friend to go off to the library alone. She had a mirror with her for some reason which niggles Crowley in ways he doesn’t quite understand. Neither Harry or Ron have any idea either and McGonagall escorts them back to their common room in silence, leaving Crowley staring at Hermione with a pensive expression on his face.

Aziraphale joins him soon after.[11]

“Do you know what did this, my dear?” the angel asks and Crowley nods. “What was it?”

“Snake.” Crowley sighs. “It’s a snake.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Really? But- but what snake would- Crowley I don’t know of any snake big enough to attack a giant spider.”

“The mirror.” Crowley points at the mirror on the nightstand by the bed Hermione lies on. Aziraphale looks at it. “There’s an echo to it no one else can see. Don’t look—” he grabs Aziraphale’s hand when the angel makes a move to look. “—it’d affect you, angel or no.”

“But not you?”

Crowley shrugs. “I’m a snake. Can’t affect me when I’m what it came from.”

“What- what are we going to do?” Aziraphale asks after a moment.

“Nothing to do except kill it, angel.” Crowley’s face is closed but Aziraphale has know this particular demon for six thousand years. He knows when Crowley is trying to hide how he feels about something.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, placing a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. It’s a mark to how upset his demon is that Crowley doesn’t shrug the hand off. Instead, the demon leans into the touch just a little.

“It is what it is, angel.”

But that doesn’t make it is. What needs to be done is sometimes the hardest thing to do, especially when it’s choosing between something you’ve made and thus love and something you’ve found and love as well.

Aziraphale goes to find McGonagall to put the school on lockdown while Crowley and Aziraphale go hunting for a giant snake. It’s not going to be easy for them to find but now Crowley knows it’s a snake, he can call it out himself. In theory. Of course, that’s when they discover that Ginny Weasley is missing, the mandrakes are ready, and there’s a message in paint or blood declaring that her bones are going to remain in the Chamber forever. It’s not exactly enjoyable but it does spur McGonagall into getting all the students rounded up in their common rooms.

Harry and Ron sneak out of Gryffindor tower and come across Crowley in the corridors near the second floor bathroom. The invisibility cloak is useless against Crowley because he can smell them long before he’d ever need to see them which ends up with Harry and Ron being glared at by an irate demon.

“We know where the chamber entrance is!” Harry exclaims before Crowley can miracle them back to their common room. “But we’ll only show if you promise to take us with you!”

Crowley agrees only because it would help to know where the damned Chamber is and snaps his fingers to alert Aziraphale to come to where he is. The angel appears in a single second, just _there_ and perhaps it finally sinks in for Ron that he is indeed an angel.

The boys lead them into the bathroom on the second floor—the girls bathroom—and engage in a brief conversation with a ghost that seems a little too familiar with Harry. Crowley decides he’s going to miracle the ghost away when all is said and done but there’s more pressing things to deal with so he focuses instead on the fact that Harry is inspecting the taps on the sinks in the bathroom.

“It’s this one, see,” Harry says, “there’s a snake symbol. This is the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.”

Crowley looks around at the bathroom. “Bit anticlimactic really, a bathroom,” he comments and Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him.

“Just open the Chamber, Crowley,” Aziraphale instructs and Crowley does just that, speaking in the hissing sibilance that comes as naturally to him as flying.

The Chamber opening is a little more dramatic but still falls flat considering everything. Them having to slide down a huge chute to get to the Chamber is just stupid but for a snake it’s a decent entry point. Crowley is tempted to transform here and now but holds off until they come to the Chamber proper.

None of them expect to see a boy in outdated robes standing inside the Chamber looking quite comfortable while Ginny Weasley lays unconscious at his feet.

Ron and Harry instantly rush over to Ginny, Aziraphale with them to keep them safe and check on the girl. Crowley instead approaches the boy, his eyes narrowed and nose twitching. There is evil here and it comes from the boy.

“It’s no use,” the boy says. “She’ll be dead soon.”

Ron jumps to his feet. “She’s my sister!” Aziraphale holds the boy back with a gentle grip that Ron doesn’t fight and the strange boy just stares at him blankly.

“She’ll still be dead soon,” the boy repeats and Crowley’s lips curl in disgust. Insensitive bastard. “So will the rest of you.”

“Oh, why’s that?” Crowley asks, sauntering up to the boy who stares at him with that dead expression and those very, very empty eyes. People describe snake and shark eyes as cold and dead, empty of anything but these eyes that Crowley stares into—they’re deader than anything ever made by the Almighty.

“Slytherin’s beast will answer me, it’s time really,” the boy answers after a moment, like he’s sizing up whether it’s worth answering Crowley or not. Evidently it is because the boy begins to—well— _gloat_ at them. “All year I’ve been using _her_ to set it free. Unfortunately it’s only ever managed to petrify people but it’s no matter—it still fulfilled its purpose in terrorising the mudbloods.”

“Ginny would never help hurt anyone!” Ron snarls, pulling against Aziraphale’s grip and the cold-eyed boy laughs.

“Not willingly no, too weak and pathetic to ever do it herself,” he sniffs, smiling a dead smile. “But the more she wrote to me the easier it was to use her to do my bidding.”

“You’re from the diary?” Harry realises, frowning. “You’re Tom Riddle.”

The boy—Tom Riddle—smiles again and it’s such a wrong smile. “I am,” he confirms, “and you—” he points a wand that must be Ginny’s at Harry “must be Harry Potter.”

“I am.”

Riddle nods. “I thought so. Tell me,” he says, stepping toward Aziraphale and the kids but he’s stopped by Crowley stepping between them. He glares at Crowley who doesn’t even bother to glare back. “Tell me, how is it you survived the killing curse?”

“What’s it matter to you?” Harry demands. “You weren’t there.”

Riddle pulls himself up taller—not much taller considering he’s stood next to Crowley who is much taller than him—trying to be impressively intimidating but it falls flat. “You survived a curse that no one can survive cast by the most powerful wizard of all time,” Riddle states, staring at Harry. “Tell me how?”

“Why do you _care?”_

“Because he’s Voldemort.”

Everyone looks at Crowley in varying states of surprise. Riddle recovers first.

“So you figured it out,” he drawls, looking Crowley up and down, and that dead smile seems contemplative. “I’m impressed.”

“Not hard to figure out considering how little of a soul you are,” Crowley answers with a casual shrug. It irritates Riddle into glaring at him.

“For now,” the boy agrees. “But soon the girl will be dead and I will be whole.”

“Not if we kill you first,” Aziraphale says from beside Ginny. The angel’s face is closed, the face of an angel of God not one who hides in books. This isn’t the time for softness and Aziraphale knows it.

Riddle laughs. “You can’t! I’m immortal.”

Crowley actually laughs. “Nah,” he says, “you just think you are. But you’re only human—mostly. And humans die.”

Riddle steps away from them all and Crowley remains where he stands. “Not all humans die,” Riddle declares. “I shall be the first to prove that immortality is possible.”

“Not the way you’ve gone about it.” Crowley gives Riddle a sharp smile, one that shows the fangs Crowley rarely lets be seen. It gives Riddle pause. “Not your fault, too scared of dying like regular people. Shouldn’t have split your soul though; makes you weak.”

“I am not weak!” Riddle points his wand at Crowley and fires off a spell of sickly green light. It never touches Crowley who just snaps his way out of the line of fire. “I am Lord Voldemort! I am the greatest wizard ever known! Every witch and wizard fears my name!”

“Not me, Tom,” Crowley laughs from behind the boy who spins around and throws another green light spell at him. Again Crowley snaps his way clear. “You’re just an uppity human too scared of death.”

Riddle stops talking then, focusing on trying to kill Crowley—and he is trying to kill him, the green light he throws at the demon every time is unmistakeable—but he always misses[12].

“Where’s the diary?” Aziraphale looks around the trio of children, a little desperately, and both boys start looking around also.

“There!” Harry exclaims, pointing toward the massive relief of a man’s face on the far side of the Chamber. In the water near the base of the relief is a small rectangle-shaped object. The diary. “I’ll get it!”

“Harry—” Aziraphale tries and fails to grab Harry’s hand as the boy darts forward, racing across the Chamber while Riddle and Crowley dance about. The angel performs a miracle that sees to it Harry won’t be harmed by any stray magic but he’s more focused on having his child back here _now­_ than on paying attention to whatever Riddle is saying.

Aziraphale realises rather abruptly that he should have been paying attention.

The stone relief shifts, the mouth of the face opening wide just as Harry reaches the diary.

 _“Speak to me Slytherin, greatest of Hogwarts four!”_ Riddle is standing facing the relief, hand out. From within the statue a sound like wind rustling through trees emanates.

It is not the sound of wind in the trees.

 _“Kill them!”_ Riddle orders and the giant serpent that emerges lunges immediately for the nearest living thing to it.

Harry.

“NO!” Aziraphale screams. Ron screams.

Crowley _roars_.

The basilisk is slammed into mere centimetres from Harry by a form as large and as scaled as itself. Something far older and far, far more powerful.

Something that is protecting its young.

“Harry! Get back here now!” Aziraphale shouts and Harry turns, eyes wide, face paler than ever. “Now!”

Harry throws himself across the Chamber and collapses beside Aziraphale and Ron, the diary clutched in his hands. Aziraphale rips it from him, drops it on the floor and without even hesitating, slams the small dagger he pulls from his coat into the heart of it.

It screams.

There’s no other way to describe it. The diary screams an unholy sound that pierces their ears and makes both boys hunch over in pain. Aziraphale grits his teeth and focuses.

“BE GONE FOUL FIEND!”

Riddle screams in tandem with the diary, his form crackling, beams of golden light bursting out until he suddenly explodes in a rush of light.

The moment the diary is no more than shrivelled, burnt husk of a book, Aziraphale pulls Ginny and Ron toward him, snagging Harry with his hand, and miracles them out of the Chamber directly to the infirmary.

Crowley is left to deal with the king of serpents alone.

Not that he needs the help.

The basilisk is strong, it’s a thousand years old, but it’s nothing compared to a demon like Crowley. Nothing compared to the one who created serpents long before the world existed. It hisses and snaps at him, tries to use its eyes against him, but it can’t because Crowley cannot be petrified.

He’s protected because he is the source of its power like he is the source of all serpents.

Any other snake would recognise him, defer to him. But this basilisk is mad with age and isolation, given purpose by a shade and doesn’t care anymore. It’s as rabid as any snake can be and it’s a mercy to put it down.

Crowley doesn’t feel merciful when he tears flesh and scales from it. Doesn’t feel merciful when it does the same and he takes more in return.

He feels nothing but a burning wrath of selfish protectiveness and when he plunges his fangs into the neck of the basilisk, he digs deep and pours hellfire into it, burning the basilisk to nothing but a hollow shell of what it was.

It’s death throes are dramatic but end soon enough.

* * *

Aziraphale is waiting in Dumbledore’s office for Crowley. The angel, Ron, and Harry were dragged up there the moment Pomfrey informed McGonagall of their sudden appearance with Ginny—bleary-eyed and confused but mostly okay, the girl remained in the infirmary. He knows Crowley will be fine. Even if he’s discorporated, he’ll come back. Bit awkward explaining the paperwork but Aziraphale knows Crowley is More Than Capable explaining his actions in a favourable light.

That doesn’t stop him from pacing fretfully while Harry and Ron sit quietly. McGonagall is calling Ron’s family, the Weasley’s distraught over their missing daughter so suddenly returned when the door to the office opens and Aziraphale stops, smiling at the door.

His smile drops when he sees Albus fucking Dumbledore there instead of his demon.

“Headmaster!” McGonagall exclaims, ending the firecall. She stares at Dumbledore who gives her a twinkling nod. “You’re back.”

“The board reinstated me when they learnt a student had been taken into the Chamber,” Dumbledore informs them, looking at Ron and Harry. “Your sister is perfectly fine mister Weasley. Madame Pomfrey is keeping her in the infirmary overnight to give her a chance to rest.”

Aziraphale doesn’t give two-hoots what else Dumbledore is about to say when the headmaster turns to look at him but is fortunate to not find out when the door opens again and Crowley storms in.

Well, ‘storms’ isn’t quite accurate.

It’s more like Crowley half falls, half stomps inside the office, walking at an angle like he’s lugging a heavy suitcase in one hand and Aziraphale looks to see and—it’s not a suitcase.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, disgusted. “That is unsanitary!”

“It’s dead, angel,” Crowley responds, lugging the head of the basilisk inside the office that it shouldn’t fit inside but does. He drops it in a messy pile beside the door, makes his way over to Aziraphale and gives the angel a smile. “Not a problem anymore. Poked its eyes out.”

Crowley is saved from whatever Aziraphale is about to say to him when the door to the office opens _again_ and Lucius Malfoy marches in with Cornelius Fudge behind him. A house-elf follows but that’s an afterthought[13].

The fire flares to life and the Weasley parents step through into the office and this makes the office quite full. The head of a basilisk adds nothing to the décor or the smell but it does make it quite interesting when the newcomers all realise it’s there.

“It’s dead,” Crowley points out helpfully and his smile is wide and toothy, fangs in full view, eyes brighter and golden and no longer even pretending to be human. Aziraphale seems to stare at him for a while, focused on Crowley’s eyes. The demon resolves to ask the angel about that later. “No eyes either. Perfectly safe now.”

“The- the creature from the Chamber of Secrets I presume?” Malfoy asks and Crowley nods. “I see. How was it—dispatched?”

Crowley’s grin widens. “By me.”

No one seems to know how to take that statement.

“Th- that’s preposterous! You- you’re-” Fudge splutters and Crowley finally, _finally_ does the one thing he’s wanted to do since he met the man.

The demon snarls a hissing warning, the kind that a particularly large and angry cobra makes when it’s been pissed off. It has the desired effect of freezing the short bowler-hat-wearing idiot mid-sentence.

“Now dear,” Aziraphale says, placing a hand on Crowley’s arm. “No need to traumatise the man, he seems delicate enough as is[14].”

Crowley snorts. “Understatement.” He looks over at Harry and Ron. “You okay?” he asks and both of them nod at him.

Molly and Arthur Weasley are beside Ron in a moment, evidently overcoming their own shock and whatever fear they feel to be with their son. They lecture the boy even as they praise him but it’s a little too heavy on the lecturing for Aziraphale’s tastes but they’re his parents. He’ll simply praise Ron for his bravery later.

“The snake is dead, it was the diary—” Aziraphale holds up clear bag with a mostly destroyed diary in it—fire is effective at destroying things after all—with a prim smile “—and the mandrakes are ready early,” Crowley says and just like that, the mandrakes are indeed ready early and madame Pomfrey is able to start applying the potion to students the moment it’s finished by Snape and Sprout are finished with it.

No one can argue with what Crowley has said because there is indeed proof the snake is dead—a great big head—that the diary is responsible—confirmed when curse-breakers take a look at it and sense the echo of Pure Evil—and the mandrakes are ready when Sprout is heard screeching about them and running pell-mell down the corridors to Snape’s quarters to drag him to his office to start brewing.

Of course, that doesn’t stop Malfoy from being a pretentious dick about things or Fudge from stuttering and spluttering in pointless outrage, but it is entertaining to witness.

This is how Aziraphale realises something about the house-elf behind Malfoy who seems to be performing a complicated charades routine to them. It’s Harry who realises what the house-elf is about.

Long-story-short, Harry ends up winning the loyalty of a house-elf named Dobby that is freed when Lucius Malfoy somehow gives the house-elf a sock quite _miraculously_ after storming out of Dumbledore’s office. Fudge leaves in a quiet huff after Dumbledore reassures him that there is no cause for alarm. Ron goes back to the Gryffindor common room with McGonagall, the Weasleys head to the infirmary to see their daughter and Harry goes with Crowley and Aziraphale to their quarters in the library.

The rest of term passes in a gentle haze of exams—not cancelled because Aziraphale just refused no matter what argument Dumbledore made—and bright June sunshine until it’s time for the train to depart from the station and the trio return to London for another summer.

Unbeknownst to them, things are in motion and by the time of Harry’s thirteenth-birthday a strange dog will show up on their doorstep and dog-the-mongrel will take quite kindly to it leading to Harry adopting another pet no matter what angel or demon say.

* * *

* * *

[1] Prior to Aziraphale and Crowley arriving at Hogwarts, Muggle Studies was a bit of a joke subject; the sort one took to get an easy grade because you could make up quite literally anything you liked about muggles and come out with a top mark. Naturally, considering how wildly inaccurate the class was, both immortal beings took offense at it and set to revising it with the sort of dogged-determinedness that only Offended people seem able to achieve. Thus, politics, economics, science, culture, and a whole host of other things—including music and literature; respectively Crowley and Aziraphale’s insistence—now form the bulk of the new curriculum for Muggle Studies. It is a daunting amount of information shoved into four years’ worth of schooling—should students continue into seventh year—but it has made the subject highly desirable and viewed favourably by higher education and future employers alike. 

[2] This is an unfortunate side effect for Ron of being one of seven children and the second youngest. He’s quite used to just dealing with things himself. This also, as a result, means he doesn’t have much ambition beyond being noticed and paid attention to by his mother. Any reason will do at some point. Especially when his mother is ever so focused on her children doing well but seems to forget that Ron needs support and attention beyond the basics of parenting. He feels a little pushed aside compared to his little sister, a little forgotten compared to Fred and George’s antics, a little stupid compared to Percy, Bill, and Charlie. But he loves his family. Which makes all those feelings a horrible little mass inside him that he feels guilty about feeling in the first place. In the end, this is partly why it is a good thing that this is not the same lifetime where Harry is not raised by an angel and a demon—if it were, Ron would feel outdone by another child whom his mother would essentially adopt as an extra son.

[3] If Crowley spends several hours a day fantasising about that blush then that is his business and Not To Be Discussed Further.

[4] It will take another few years before Harry is effectively out of this mindset enough to automatically trust Crowley and Aziraphale with everything and anything that even remotely poses a threat or is Of Interest. This is actually quite good and shows an amazing amount of progress for someone who grew up emotionally abused by people who were supposed to love them. Of course, considering some of the things that will happen to Harry in the next five years, it is somewhat irritating for him, Crowley, and Aziraphale collectively. Not to mention Hermione and Ron.

[5] This is actually true. Ron isn’t bitter about his siblings getting more attention from his mother than he does. He gets plenty enough after all. But he would rather prefer his mother get his favourite colour right for once so he doesn’t have a maroon jumper to wear for Christmas.

[6] For once this is actually what they intend to do, not just prevacate around the issue but actually Speak Organised Thought Words About It. This is, naturally, a daunting task and something of Cosmic Importance.

[7] The author is most certainly not basing this on their experiences with brothers and male friends who all have this exact thing in common. To the point that one friend sat up in a dead sleep, muttered something about “it not being right” and then flopped back down to sleep next to the author who was partly crushed by a big as fuck rottweiler who was the softest thing ever. And also very gassy.

[8] Adults often assume that children aren’t capable of being this sort of self-aware and practical. Adults are—as is to be expected—often _wrong_ about children.

[9] This, incidentally, is a good thing for when exams start since both of them are able to explain and elaborate on what they’re saying in their charms essays. Filius is beside himself when he realises that both Ron and Harry are more than smart enough to understand more complex concepts in charms and sets himself the task of encouraging both of them to continue charms past fifth year no matter what.

[10] A “butty” for ya’ll to know is a sandwich but “butty” is very much a common word in the UK and especially where I live in the North West so hush.

[11] Aziraphale deigns to walk through the castle to Crowley’s location as opposed to miracling himself beside the demon. Part of this is to give the angel time to think and part of it is to give the demon time to think. There are many things that must be done and many things that must be decided. Time is needed but stopping time would be a pointless waste considering how precious time is currently.

[12] He does come close a few times that have Aziraphale biting at his knuckles as he remains with the kids. He’s waiting for his opportunity to miracle them out of the Chamber and also take out the diary but he is a little distracted watching Crowley literally dance with death.

[13] Of course, dear readers, we know this house-elf is _not_ an afterthought but this lot don’t know that.

[14] This is, of course, an understatement considering how very sensitive Fudge is to any sort of criticism or critical thinking that doesn’t mesh with his deluded world view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments and all that jazz.
> 
> I'm gonna pass out now. Night.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos sustain me and so does a better immune system than the one I have since I'm ill af and want to just curl up and die lol :)


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